#secreatry!reader

[prnstarmartini111]

real fantasies ♠

Summary: secretary!reader x lawyer!rafe

Y/N tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and glanced at the wall clock. 8:37 AM. Early, but not unusual. She’d been coming in thirty minutes before her official shift for weeks now. Not that anyone asked her to. But she figured it didn’t hurt to be the first one there, to make sure the coffee was fresh, the reception desk tidy, the inbox sorted.

She was originally hired as a temp, someone to manage the reception while the firm “restructured their admin team.” That was two months ago. Somewhere between scheduling meetings and refilling the Nespresso pods, her role shifted. Now she was half receptionist, half personal secretary to the man himself — Mr. Cameron.

Truth was… she hadn’t come in early just to tidy the reception desk, restock the printer paper, or make sure the Nespresso machine was prepped with fresh pods. Those were all good reasons, easy ones to rattle off if anyone ever asked.

But if she was being honest — truly honest — she came in early for him.

For those quiet few minutes before the day really began.

When the only sound in the building was the soft click of his shoes across the tile and her own heartbeat in her ears.

Mr. Cameron always arrived early too. Never exactly the same time, never announced, just… there.

And those minutes — five, maybe ten if she was lucky — were her favorite part of the day.

There was something about him in the morning. He looked different somehow. Less polished. A little looser in the shoulders, his voice rough with sleep, eyes a bit heavier. And when he walked through the lobby and met her eyes, gave her a quiet “Good morning” in that low voice of his — God, it did something to her.

He was always polite. Always professional. Never inappropriate, never even flirtatious. He treated her with respect, calm, precise. But she noticed things. The way he glanced at her shoes sometimes when she crossed her legs behind the desk. The way his eyes lingered for a beat longer than necessary when she handed him documents. The way his voice softened when he used her name.

She didn’t know if it meant anything. Probably not.

Still, every morning she paid attention — to the cut of her blouse, the shape of her lipstick, how her hair framed her face. Nothing over the top, nothing that would draw a raised eyebrow. Just enough to feel like maybe, maybe, he’d see her as more than just the girl at the desk.

Sometimes, she caught herself hoping he’d forget something just so he’d have to walk back through the lobby again. Or linger near her desk for an extra minute. Or say something that didn’t have to do with calendar invites or legal briefs.

Today, when he walked in, she felt that familiar, embarrassing flutter in her chest. Like her body was already reacting before her brain had a chance to rein it in.

He’d looked right at her. Not just glanced — looked. And he’d smiled. Just a little. But it was there.

“You’re here early,” he’d said.

Not annoyed. Not questioning. Just… noticing.

“Oh. Uh, I just… needed to sort through some invoices that came in late yesterday"

The corner of his mouth had twitched, like he saw through it but didn’t mind. “Invoices. Right.”

And then he’d gone into his office with a soft “Thank you” after she offered to get his coffee.

Now, alone again, she pressed her palms flat against the desk, grounding herself.

It wasn’t professional. And it wasn’t going anywhere. He was Mr. Cameron. Her boss. Technically, her temporary boss. Someone who wore cufflinks that probably cost more than her rent and signed deals with people who used words like equity stake and offshore account in casual conversation.

She was just the girl who made sure the copier didn’t jam and kept the candy dish full.

-------------------------------------

A few hours later, the lobby of the office buzzed with its usual morning rhythm. Phones ringing. Shoes tapping against polished marble. The soft hum of printers kicking into motion, spitting out contracts and case summaries like clockwork.

Y/N was back behind the reception desk, posture perfect, eyes scanning the screen in front of her, though she wasn’t really reading the emails piling up. Her mind kept drifting.

She adjusted her skirt subtly under the desk, crossing one leg over the other.

It was shorter than what she usually wore. Still professional — technically — but it skimmed higher up her thigh than normal when she walked, and she’d paired it with a tucked-in blouse that hugged her waist just enough to make her hesitate before leaving the house that morning. She’d stood in front of her mirror for an extra two minutes, wondering if it was too much… and then decided she didn’t care.

The elevator chimed.

She glanced up.

A man stepped out wearing a navy bomber jacket, hands in his pockets like he owned the place. His eyes flicked around the space, zeroing in on her with easy confidence.

“I’m here to see Cameron,” he said as he walked straight past the sign-in sheet, already heading toward the hallway like he’d done this a hundred times.

Y/N blinked, standing up quickly.

“He’s busy at the moment,” she said with a polite smile, stepping slightly into his path. “If you’d like to have a seat, I can—”

“Oh, no. I’m good. He knows I’m coming,” the man interrupted, not slowing his pace.

She moved a bit more deliberately this time, enough that he had to actually stop.

“I still need to check,” she said, keeping her tone firm but composed. “If you could just wait a moment—”

He grinned. “Just tell him Leo’s here.”

She hesitated.

“Hold on,” she said, and instead of reaching for the phone or the intercom, she rounded the desk and headed down the hallway.

Her heels clicked softly against the floor, and her pulse quickened the closer she got to his office.

She knocked once, then eased the door open.

Mr. Cameron looked up from his desk, pen in hand. His brow lifted slightly when he saw her, and his gaze — slow, deliberate — moved from her eyes to the curve of her waist and back again. She swore she saw something flicker there, just for a second.

“There’s someone here,” she said, keeping her voice composed. “Leo. He said you’d know who he is.”

His expression didn’t change, but his jaw shifted slightly as he set his pen down.

“It’s fine,” he said. “You can send him in.”

Before she could reply, a voice cut in from behind her.

“Told you,” Leo said smugly, already halfway through the doorway. He gave her an exaggerated once-over as he passed — eyes dragging from her heels to the hem of her skirt, then up, not bothering to hide it.

“Nice to see you too,” he added with a crooked smile.

Y/N didn’t respond. But she felt Mr. Cameron’s gaze snap to Leo in that exact moment.

Then, slowly, back to her.

“Thank you, Y/N” Mr. Cameron said — a little too quickly, a little too clipped. “That’ll be all.”

His voice was still calm, but there was an edge to it now. Barely noticeable.

She nodded once, straightening a little.

“Of course.”

As she turned and walked out, she could feel Leo watching her. She could feel Mr. Cameron watching him watching her.

And even though her pulse was high and her stomach was flipping in ways she tried to ignore, she couldn’t help the smallest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

For once, she didn’t regret the skirt.

---------------------------------------------

It was raining softly outside. Y/N had just finished washing the last dish, setting it on the drying rack beside a chipped mug.

She padded barefoot through her apartment, dimly lit with a single lamp, a quiet playlist humming low from her speakers. Her gray sleep shorts were soft from wear, her oversized tee hanging off one shoulder. She had tied her hair up loosely.

She’d just settled onto the couch with a glass of wine when her phone lit up across the room.

Unknown number.

Her heart skipped for no reason. But she picked it up.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then — that voice.

“Y/N, it’s Rafe”

Immediately, she straightened. Her wine forgotten. Her fingers gripped the phone tighter.

“Oh. Hi,” she said, voice caught somewhere between casual and breathless.

“I’m sorry to call you this late,” he said. His voice was lower than usual, less formal, like it softened once it stepped out of office hours. “I’m working on the Dallinger case, and I forgot some important documents.”

She was already standing, walking toward her small kitchen table where her bag and keys were. “Do you need me to scan and send them?”

Another pause.

“If you’re not busy… would it be too much to ask you to bring them to me?” he asked, carefully. “I know it’s not part of your job, and I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. But I could really use them tonight.”

Y/N didn’t even hesitate.

“Of course,” she said, her voice too quick, too eager.

He exhaled lightly into the phone. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

When he hung up, she stood there for a moment in the quiet of her apartment, heart thudding steadily beneath her ribs. Then she crossed to her bedroom and opened her closet.

She pulled out the shortest skirt she could find and a tight blouse. She wore a touch of mascara, a hint of perfume, and smoothed her hair down into something a little more deliberate than the casual mess it had been earlier.

She told herself she just wanted to look presentable.

But she knew the truth.

The documents were easy to find. She grabbed the folder and caught a cab, pressing the printed address in her lap like it might vanish if she let go. Her nerves buzzed the closer they got.

It felt personal. More than it should’ve.

When he opened the door, it was like stepping into some version of him she hadn���t yet met.

Sleeves rolled up. Shirt half-buttoned. A pen still tucked behind his ear. His hair slightly rumpled, like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for hours.

“Y/N, You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

She smiled, tightening her grip on the folder. “No problem, Mr. Cameron.”

He took the folder from her, their fingers brushing — warm and brief — and then he glanced up, meeting her eyes with something unreadable.

“Rafe, just say Rafe, Y/N” he said quietly.

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh… okay.”

Something in her stomach flipped. It was such a small thing. A name. But it felt like a crack forming — a shift. A quiet invitation into something a little closer.

“Right” she murmured.

He gave her the smallest smile, and stepped aside. “Come in. I just put some coffee on, but I can grab you something if you’d like.”

She stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood. His home was everything she expected — clean, minimalist, warm in that masculine, curated way. The lights were low. There was music playing faintly from another room — instrumental, jazzy.

“Thank you again,” he said, flipping open the folder as he moved toward the couch.

They sat — not quite close, not far. The papers rested between them. He leaned forward, flipping through them with quiet focus.

She watched him. The way his brows furrowed. The way his thumb dragged slowly along the paper’s edge. The way he bit the inside of his cheek when he was thinking. Every motion quiet, thoughtful, unhurried.

The rain tapped gently at the windows. The apartment was warm.

And he was right there — so near, and somehow still just out of reach.

She shifted slightly, smoothing her skirt. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Her voice was soft.

He didn’t look at her right away. Just gave a small exhale, still focused on the papers. “No,” he said after a beat, voice low. “You’ve already done more than enough for me tonight.”

But then he rolled his shoulder — a subtle movement, like he wasn’t even fully aware of it — and winced just slightly as his hand moved up to rub the back of his neck.

She tilted her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You're working too hard,” she said, a touch of amusement in her voice. “You’re gonna end up with a permanent hunch if you keep this up.”

He gave a quiet laugh, deep and low. “What I really need,” he said, rubbing at the base of his neck, “is a massage.”

She raised a brow, leaning back a little. “Oh?” she said, teasing. “I could help you with that.”

He finally looked at her then, the curve of a smirk playing at his mouth. “Yeah?”

And before either of them could pretend it was just a joke, she was already moving — walking around the couch, quiet and steady, heels off now, her steps soft against the floor.

She rested her hands gently on his shoulders. He was tense — and warm. Her fingers pressed lightly at first, testing.

He let out a low breath, tilting his head slightly as her thumbs moved in small, slow circles. “Oh,” he murmured, a hint of relief in his voice. “You’re a lifesaver.”

She smiled, unseen behind him. “Someone’s gotta look out for you.”

He hummed, leaning a little more into her hands. “Yeah?”

“You take care of everyone else,” she said, her tone still soft but threading with something more real now. “With your endless case files and late-night calls and moral high ground. Someone has to take care of you, too.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, letting her work out the tension in his shoulders, his breathing slower now — steadier.

Then, voice quieter: “You already do.”

He turned his head slightly, enough to glance at her over his shoulder. “The coffee waiting on my desk before I even sit down. The folders color-coded and perfectly prepped.”

Her fingers stilled, just slightly.

Then, in one smooth motion, he lifted his hand and placed it over hers and gently pulled her hand forward, guiding her around the couch.

Her heart skipped.

He didn’t let go. Just kept her hand in his, eyes following her as she moved to face him.

“I really should be thanking you,” he said, his voice lower now, intimate in a way that felt almost dangerous.

And before she could say anything he tugged her closer, slow but sure, and pulled her gently into his lap.

She caught her breath as her legs slid on either side of his, straddling him, her hands braced against his chest now, and his hands steady on her hips.

The space between them vanished.

Her body settled against his, warm and grounding, her legs folded on either side of his lap. Neither of them moved at first . They just… existed there for a moment, caught in the thick hush of the room. The music played softly in the background, the notes barely audible over the sound of their breathing — a little heavier now, just slightly out of sync.

His hands still rested at her waist, the heat of them seeping through the fabric of her blouse. One of his thumbs dragged up slowly, brushing just beneath the hem, skin against skin. She didn’t pull away.

Her fingers had found the collar of his shirt again, fingertips grazing the top button, hesitant. Like crossing that tiny boundary would make everything real. Tangible. Irreversible.

He was watching her.

His eyes moved over her face — the curve of her lips, the flutter of her lashes, the tension in her jaw she was trying not to show. And when she finally met his gaze, he leaned in — not rushed, not desperate — just close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath ghost across her mouth.

She swore she could feel her pulse in her throat.

Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t tentative. It was certain. A claiming, quiet and deep. His mouth moved against hers with purpose — slow, but insistent — the kind of kiss that made everything else fall away.

She responded before she could even think about it, lips parting, hands curling into the fabric at his chest. He tilted his head, deepening it, and her body melted into his like it had been waiting to. Like she was meant to fit right there.

His hand slid up, one large palm splaying across her back, fingers pressing between her shoulder blades as he held her to him. The other stayed at her waist, guiding her without needing to. She could feel the strength in him, coiled and restrained, the way his grip tightened just slightly every time she rolled her hips against his.

She didn’t mean to move — not really. It was instinct, the kind of thing her body decided without permission. Just the slow press of her hips into his, feeling the growing hardness beneath her, the way he tensed every time she shifted.

A low sound rumbled in his throat — not quite a groan, but close — and it did something to her. Lit a fire under her skin, in her chest, deep in her stomach.

He broke the kiss only to breathe, eyes searching hers, dark and unreadable. His voice was low, rough.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” she whispered, fingers brushing the side of his jaw. “I want to.”

That was all it took.

He kissed her again, hungrier this time. His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head just enough to deepen the angle. She let herself fall into it, gave in to the press of his body beneath hers, the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his hands as they slipped beneath the back of her shirt, palms skimming hot over bare skin.

Her breath caught as he pulled her tighter against him, the slow grind of his hips meeting hers like it was second nature. Like this wasn’t the first time. Like they’d done this a hundred times before in a hundred different fantasies they both pretended they didn’t have.

Her blouse shifted as his hands moved, and she felt the cool air kiss her spine, followed by the slow drag of his fingertips. She shivered.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard, voice just a rasp against her mouth.

“Tell me to stop.”

But her lips just brushed his again, the answer silent and unmistakable.