i-am-just-a-slut-for-simon-riley

[i-am-just-a-slut-for-simon-riley]

Limerence I

“𝒴ℴ𝓊’𝓇ℯ 𝓈𝒸𝓇ℯ𝓌ℯ𝒹 𝓊𝓅 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝒶𝓃𝓉, 𝓁𝒾𝓀ℯ 𝒶 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾ℴ𝓃－𝒹ℴ𝓁𝓁𝒶𝓇 𝓂𝒶𝓃”

Office romance? (this is pure self-indulgence)

Themes: A very petty jealous older man, negative emotional literacy, porn with plot?, assistant reader who loves being a brat

The rain pattered against the window overlooking the sprawling cityscape, each droplet meandering down the glass like tears, their paths illuminated by the golden glow of the streetlights below. The rhythmic ticking of the wall clock reverberated softly in the room, harmonizing with the faint irregular beat of keyboard clicks and the gentle hum of the city alive with energy. London was breathtaking tonight, its lights scattered across the horizon like shards of diamonds against the velvet darkness that embraced it. The traffic below flowed like molten streams of amber, headlights weaving through the streets in a mesmerizing dance. Occasionally, the muffled rumble of laughter or the distant honk of a horn filtered up, seeping into Simon’s office like whispers of a world still turning.

Simon’s hands moved deftly over his desk, brushing through the disarray of files spread haphazardly across its surface, before returning to the keyboard, his fingers tapping out a steady rhythm. His brow furrowed in concentration; the sharp lines of tension etched across his face framed by the soft halo of his desk lamp. He glanced briefly at the time glowing on his monitor—10:19 p.m.—and his lips pressed into a thin, resolute line. The quiet hum of fatigue was beginning to tug at the edges of his mind.

With a sigh, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his other hand raking through his short, buzzed dirty-blonde hair, the motion quick and absentminded. Then came a faint, familiar sound, the steady hiss of the coffee machine outside his office, followed by the rhythmic clicking of heels echoing down the corridor. The sharp cadence drew closer, deliberate and unhurried, until it paused just outside his door. Simon barely looked up, his eyes flickering to the scattered papers before him as three soft, deliberate knocks broke the silence, each one resonating in the stillness like a gentle ripple in a calm pool.

"Come in," he called out, his voice clipped, and laced with an edge of tension he couldn’t quite conceal.

Simon rubbed his temples, he yearned—no, ached—for the days when the clutter of tedious reports spread across his desk was the worst of his problems. Those days were simple, almost blissful, compared to this. Because now, the pounding headache gnawing at his temples wasn’t from numbers or deadlines. Oh no, it was from that picture. That stupid, damned picture.

It had embedded itself in his mind like a thorn he couldn’t pull out. You, his sweet, ever-efficient assistant, draped in that impossibly tight dress that hugged every inch of you like a second skin. You were at a nightclub, lights flashing, music pounding, looking like temptation incarnate. And there you were, grinning—grinning—like you hadn’t a care in the world as some jackass, who clearly believed he was God’s gift to womankind, had the audacity to hold you by the waist. His hands were on you, pulling you close, his lips brushing your ear like he was whispering the kind of secrets that were meant to make angels weep and Simon’s blood boil.

God, he hated that picture. Every cursed detail of it. The way the dress clung to you, outlining curves he’d done his damnedest to ignore during office hours. The way your smile lit up your whole face, carefree and dazzling, a smile he never got to see in the fluorescent haze of the office. And your eyes, sparkling, alive, brimming with joy, a kind of joy he realized, with a sharp pang, he’d never been the cause of.

And yet there you were offering it to him. That absolute wanker, with his arm slung around you like he’d won the lottery. He wasn’t even trying to play it cool, no, that sleazy bastard had shown up to a nightclub wearing his high school football jersey. A football jersey. What kinda tool does that? 

(And for your kind information love, the moron looked like he peaked junior year and had been coasting downhill ever since. No, Simon was not being petty, okay… maybe just a little. But god Love, you could do better than that, he thought. Hell, he could treat you better than that. Not that he’d ever say it. Probably. Maybe.)

The heavy mahogany door to Simon’s office slid open with a soft groan, revealing you as you stepped in with effortless grace. The sharp click of your black stilettos echoed against the polished marble floor, announcing your arrival before the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee did. The steam swirled in delicate tendrils above the porcelain cup on the tray you carried, curling and dancing in the cool air.

You looked like a damn vision, poised and professional, yet maddeningly alluring. The black sheath dress you wore hugged you just enough to tease without crossing into scandal, its hem skimming your knees. Sheer black stockings added an elegant finish, drawing a sharp contrast to the soft chaos of your loosely pinned hair. A few stray strands framed your face, almost as if daring to defy the order Simon demanded from everything around him.

“Your coffee, sir,” you said smoothly, your voice steady as your gaze met his. Those caramel eyes of his, always so intense and searching, had a way of stripping layers off people without warning. And yet, you didn’t flinch. Not outwardly, at least. Inside? Well, you’d learned to hold your breath and pray he didn’t notice.

He gave a curt nod, wordlessly gesturing for you to approach, his eyes flickering to the clock on the wall. 10:20, sharp. Of course. The man could probably set the national standard for punctuality. Time wasn’t just money in Simon’s world, it was religion, and woe to anyone who didn’t worship it with the same fervor.

You stepped forward, carefully placing the coffee on his desk, just within his reach but far enough from the precarious sea of reports. Precision was everything with Simon, and you’d learned that the hard way. God forbid a cup of coffee jeopardize the sanctity of his paperwork… there’d be a funeral, and it wouldn’t be for the coffee.

Working for him had been nothing short of a boot camp for the corporate soul. Demanding? Check. Intimidating? Double check. He was terrifyingly intelligent, sharp as a blade, and as subtle as a hurricane when pointing out flaws. It had taken you two grueling years to master the art of being his assistant. Two years of meticulous note-taking, clockwork scheduling, and developing a superhuman resistance to both his criticism and his occasional bouts of unintentional charm.

Some days, it felt like you were training for a military operation, precision drills, mental endurance, days that bled into nights without a chance to get some shut eye and a sixth sense for danger. But hey, at least there were no grenades... Minus the occasional friendly fire and his temper, which could definitely level a room when provoked.

You stood rooted in place, watching as Simon lifted the mug and took a deliberate sip. His jaw ticked, the faintest sign of some inner turmoil—or, knowing him, hyper-focused scrutiny. Perfect, He thought bitterly. Of course, the coffee was exactly how he liked it. You’d mastered the formula down to a science because God forbid his caffeine be anything less than sublime.

His eyes slid off the glowing screen, cocking a single eyebrow at you. The look wasn’t hostile—just a silent, borderline smug inquiry: Why are you still standing here?

"It’s 10:20, sir," you said, the words measured, your tone laced with carefully restrained patience. His deadpan stare didn’t budge, so you pressed on, plastering a smile so tight it made your cheeks ache. "On a weekend."

He blinked, his expression giving nothing away except maybe mild amusement. "I am aware, love," he replied, his gravelly tone low and deliberate, like velvet lined with steel. And damn it, you ignored the tingles the word love sent down your spine, forcing yourself to focus. Not the time.

"You updated the company policy to prohibit overtime," you added, your tone sharpening just slightly. "Specifically for weekends." You held his gaze, silently begging the man to connect the dots without turning this into a battle of wills. If he noticed the exasperation leaking into your professional façade, he didn’t let on. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, those infuriating caramel eyes darkening as he folded his arms, the very picture of nonchalance.

"And?" he fired back, the single word sharp enough to slice through your remaining shred of patience. Your left eye twitched involuntarily. Oh, how you wanted to throttle this man. Just one good shake for catharsis.

It wasn’t just today; he’d been pushing every button you had all week, barking orders like a drill sergeant and tossing near-impossible demands like a child who just discovered confetti. At first, you thought it was the stress of the upcoming board meeting to appoint the new chairman. Then you figured it might be his younger brother, Tommy, stirring up trouble and ending up on the tabloids as usual. But neither of those theories fit. No matter how much you analyzed it, you couldn’t pinpoint the cause of the extra hostility radiating off him lately.

Now, here he was, staring you down, almost daring you to push back. You clenched your jaw, suppressing the violent urge to snatch that mug and dump its contents over his perfectly disheveled blonde hair. Stupidly hot, insufferable man.

Yes, Simon had updated the company policy—one of the rare times he’d broken from his ironclad routines. And he’d done it for one reason: you. He still remembered the sheer, gut-wrenching panic when you’d collapsed in the middle of his office like a marionette with its strings cut. One moment you were rattling off meeting agendas, pen poised and professional as always, and the next, you were on the floor.

He hadn’t known what to do at first, standing there frozen like some idiot until the chaos kicked him into action. The doctor’s verdict? Exhaustion. The kind that came from months of living off caffeine, minimal sleep, and the stress of chasing after him. When Simon had grilled you afterward—because, of course, his solution to any problem was interrogation—he realized that his workaholic tendencies had bled into your life. If he didn’t eat until his stomach growled like a feral animal, neither did you. If he slept four hours a night to hit deadlines, so did you. And when had you last had a weekend off? You couldn’t even answer.

That night, Simon Riley, master of meticulous schedules and the sworn enemy of "unproductive time," made a choice. He dragged himself kicking and screaming into the savage, almost sacrilegious concept of… weekends. Two days of forbidden indulgence. Two days where work emails were outlawed, deadlines paused, and—God forbid—people rested. It was barbaric, but he did it. For you.

But now? Now?! Those precious hours he’d given back to you—the ones meant for sleep, self-care, or literally anything healthier than the grind—had been spent entertaining some overgrown frat boy with the audacity to wear a football jersey to a nightclub (yes, he is still stuck on that because come on man!). Was Simon being petty and irrational? Yes, one hundred percent. But he didn’t care. Because you brought out a side of him, he didn’t know he had—needy, childish, and so starved for your attention it was almost embarrassing.

And in his emotionally illiterate brain, forcing you into overtime tonight seemed like the only logical solution to his problem. If you were stuck here, sitting in his office, working late, you couldn’t be in that idiot’s arms. It wasn’t his proudest plan, but it was effective. Probably. Maybe. Whatever. Shut up, he didn’t need a therapist; he needed you to not smile at that guy ever again.

You swore that coffee mug was practically whispering to you, daring you to pick it up and accidentally redecorate his pristine imported Armani suit, the one crafted from Italian silk so luxurious it probably came with its own security detail. If only you could afford even a single thread of that fabric, you might have done it already. But no, your bank account had other ideas, and so did your sense of self-preservation.

“And…” you began, your words strained as you forced your smile to stay intact, though it felt more like baring teeth at this point, “why are we still here?”

Your tone was polite—just barely—but the edge beneath it was sharp enough to cut glass. You knew for a fact that after he’d run you ragged all week, there was next to nothing left to do. He’d had you sprinting between meetings, juggling tasks like some overqualified circus act, and practically rewriting the entire company’s future. By Friday, the work you’d tackled could’ve been enough for three assistants.

Which meant the only thing keeping you here now was him. Simon Motherfucking Riley. The man who apparently believed productivity wasn’t just a virtue but a way of life. Or maybe, you thought darkly, he was doing this for sport. Watching you squirm was probably the highlight of his day.

But no, that couldn’t be it. Not with the way his eyes flicked to you, it was not his usual sharp, assessing look, but something else entirely. You could almost feel the gears turning in his head, though whether they were driving logic or chaos was anyone’s guess. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t work-related. And if this wasn’t an abuse of power, you didn’t know what was. Yet, here you stood, holding your tongue, because despite your most vengeful instincts, you couldn’t quite justify the cost of spilling coffee on a suit that probably cost more than your rent.

"The MacTavish Project report needs to be redone," Simon finally said, his tone maddeningly calm, as if he weren’t upending your entire evening with a single sentence. Forget the coffee—you might as well hurl him off the building at this point. The audacity of this man.

"Sir," you began, incredulity dripping from every syllable, "you personally reviewed most of it and approved the draft on Wednesday." Your tone was tight, caught somewhere between disbelief and outright exasperation. Simon Riley was demanding, yes, but unreasonable? That was new, and you didn’t like it. 

He arched a single, bemused brow, leaning back slightly in his chair like he had all the time in the world. "And now," he said smoothly, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the universe, "I’ve changed my mind. He’s a very important investor, and I won’t present a plan that’s anything less than perfect."

Your hands twitched at your sides, itching to wrap around his perfectly sculpted neck and give it a squeeze… not lovingly. You could almost picture it: caramel eyes rolling back, a little choking sound—pure bliss.

Would that be a crime? Yes. Would it be worth it? Also, yes.

Simon, of course, didn’t miss the obvious annoyance flashing across your face. You didn’t even bother trying to hide it at this point, and that only seemed to amuse him further. The faintest twitch tugged at the corners of his lips, softening his usual stoic expression. He liked it—no, he loved it. Loved seeing those little sparks of rebellion in your reactions. It was as if your defiance was some personal reminder that you didn’t see him solely as a cold authority figure, but as something... more human. Familiar, even. And God help him, that idea thrilled him more than it probably should have.

Yup. Something was definitely wrong, and it sure as hell wasn’t your work ethic.

"Sir, if I may speak freely?" you asked, your voice tentative but firm, despite the tension hanging in the room. You paused, waiting for the inevitable flick of his hand that granted you permission to continue.

Simon obliged with a small, dismissive wave, his eyes not leaving yours.

"Is something bothering you? And please don’t tell me it’s the McTavish report—I know it’s not. You’ve been more stressed than usual all week, and I was wondering—"

Any trace of playfulness on his face evaporated. His jaw tightened, sharp enough to cut glass. "There isn’t. And even if there was, that would be none of your business," he snapped, his tone curt and laced with an unspoken warning to back off.

But if there was one thing you were terrible at, it was acknowledging glaring red flags. And being scared of your dictator of a boss? Not your style.

"I’m your personal assistant," you countered, crossing your arms and meeting his glare head-on. "It’s well within my rights to know if something’s going on that makes you feel compromised at work. And even if it wasn’t in my job description…" You softened your tone, the edges smoothing as you gave him a look you hoped was reassuring. "I care. You’re not just my boss."

You paused, letting the weight of your words settle. Simon’s heart did something it absolutely shouldn’t have…it skipped, then soared like it had sprouted wings. For a split second, he was flying above the clouds, your words buoying him up with their warmth.

"I like to think you’re my friend," you finished, offering a small, sincere smile.

And just like that, Simon plummeted back to earth. No, not just to earth—straight into a concrete floor of reality at full speed.

Friend? His mind screeched to a halt. FRIEND?!

His honeyed eyes darkened instantly, any fleeting warmth vanishing into the void of his rapidly dwindling patience. The shift was so abrupt it left you blinking in surprise.

"Listen here, little girl," he spat, each word dripping with venom, his tone cutting and harsh. "I am not your fucking friend."

The words hit like a slap, sharp and unexpected. Simon Riley was an enigma, a man of few words and fewer emotions, but it was impossible to mistake the offense etched into his glare.

And then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit you. Why would calling him a friend bother him so much? Unless… No way.

Your hot, scary older boss wasn’t pissed because of the sentiment.

Your brain scrambled to connect the dots, a thousand thoughts tumbling over each other like dominoes. Was he—no, surely not—pissed because you’d called him a friend when he... wanted to be something else?

No way.

No freaking way.

And yet, the simmering storm in his eyes said otherwise.

Your sigh filled the room, heavy with restraint. Sure, your conclusion about Simon’s reaction was just a working theory, and blurting it out without concrete proof would be the equivalent of signing your own professional death warrant. Instead, you pulled your composure back together, arms still crossed beneath your chest as you nodded curtly.

"My apologies for overstepping, then, sir," you said, your tone measured yet laced with a faint edge of provocation.

Simon almost groaned out loud, internally cringing at his earlier outburst. What the hell was that pathetic display? he berated himself. Clearing his throat, he reached up to loosen his tie, his fingers tugging at the fabric as if it were choking him. He forced his voice into something softer, more even.

"I... didn’t mean to snap," he admitted, his usual cold edge finally giving way to something more human. "You’re right—I’ve been a bit stressed. But it’s nothing to be concerned with." He paused briefly, his caramel eyes flicking to yours before adding, "Although… I appreciate the sentiment."

There it was. The Simon Riley you recognized, the stern, unyielding leader who cloaked his rare moments of kindness behind layers of frost. He wasn’t an easy man to read, but he always found subtle ways to look after the people under his wing, no matter how gruff his demeanor seemed.

And then you gave him that look. That damn look.

The one that pierced right through his icy armor, as if you could see beyond every wall he’d meticulously built over the decades. Your eyes, those dazzling windows of allure, struck a chord deep within him, one he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. Every time you spoke, every time you looked at him with that mixture of concern and quiet defiance, it was like someone had poured kerosene over his carefully contained fire.

And now it raged uncontrollably.

His gaze lingered on you a second too long. He swallowed hard, his thoughts slipping into dangerous territory. How would those eyes look if they were gazing up at me? he wondered, a traitorous part of his mind conjuring images he had no business entertaining. He could almost envision the sparkle of your tears, the way your lips would look—swollen, red, and glistening—after wrapping around his cock, choking and gagging as you struggled to—

Stop.

But it didn’t stop. The image of you on your knees, looking up at him with a mix of surrender and defiance, burned into his mind, fanning the heat pooling low in his abdomen. His arousal throbbed behind the tailored fabric of his suit pants, the sharp sting of his zipper brushing against his hardening length. This was what you’d reduced him to—a man who prided himself on control now undone by the mere thought of you. He was a goddamn hormonal wreck, unable to stop his mind from wandering to how your lush curves would feel bent over his desk, his hands gripping your hips as he—

Focus, he scolded himself, shifting slightly in his seat to hide the evidence of his betrayal. This was insanity. You were his assistant. He was your boss. But as he looked at you again, he couldn’t deny the truth that lingered in the dark recesses of his mind.

You had him, hook, line, and sinker, without even trying.

This is what you’ve done to me, he thought bitterly, shifting to disguise his growing arousal. Reduced to a hormone-riddled teenage boy, he was powerless against the storm you stirred in him. The image of you laid out on his desk, your body framed perfectly against his as he forced your thighs apart and ploughed his aching cock deep into you,, was burned into his mind, refusing to let him go.

And God help him, he didn’t want it to.

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Bruh, this is the first time I am writing on Tumblr cause this man has been the bane of my existence for the longest time and it is a crime that Simon Freakin Riley reimagined as a CEO is not mainstream cause let's be real ... mans gives heavy daddy dom vibes… y'all I am just going to put this one out here for now and hopefully upload the smut part of things by next week... ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა…