part 1.5 to the senator!coryo x personal assistant fem!reader mini-series - part one here (which thank you guys so much for all the love on it holy shit <3)
part 2 is being written, but i had this in my brain and needed to write out how badly this man is suffering
Half an inch. Just barely more than a centimeter. It was driving him up the walls. Your skirt was hardly shorter than its normal length. He knew he shouldn’t know that. He shouldn’t know the exact spot your skirt met on your thigh. He shouldn’t know when it’s half an inch higher than usual. But it was all he could think of as you stood in front of him. You were listing off his meetings for the week, asking for his opinion on whether he’d like to cancel one or two. But every word went in one ear and out the other.
He felt dirty. Indeed, he had to be sick. You were poisoning him. Perhaps you slipped something in his coffee… you hadn’t; he knew that. He forced his eyes off of your thighs only to catch on your lips instead. Watching the way they moved with each syllable, no sound traveled to his brain. He was pure static, taking in your electric force and frying his own circuits.
A senator checking out his assistant had to be frowned upon. It was immoral. Despite what all of his peers did in their marriages and the sins they committed, he had to be better than them. He wasn’t married. That fact, the emptiness around his ring finger, didn’t assist him in his current situation one bit. He couldn’t help but be grateful for his desk, hiding the way your presence made him no better than a teenager at the academy.
“I believe I could cancel that meeting on Friday if you would like to make it to the Senator’s offer for drinks on time,” your voice finally cut through as he met your gaze. He wondered if you could see the way you were killing him; you couldn’t. Had you teased a man like him before? Were you aware that your skirt was making his head spin? His mind raced enough laps around the room that he had lost track of time before you cut in, “Sir?”
“That sounds perfect.” Did he sound as strained as his pants felt? Was the sweat on his skin simply a cruel joke from his mind to remind him of how he should be ashamed of himself? He shifted in his chair, nodded at you, and grabbed his pen back off the desk.
“Thank you.” He had to dismiss you before he had half the mind to take that skirt and-
“Of course, sir. I’ll pick up your suit for the gala tomorrow. Do you know who I should send your plus one to?” He was distracted. That had to be the only reason his following words passed his lips.
“I’d like you to attend with me. I assume you have a dress you can find suitable?” Your face warmed, and he swore he’d never forget the sight. It would haunt him late at night in his sheets. You had infected him like a disease, and how could a doctor ever prescribe him a cure for something so pathetic as a desire for his assistant?
“I will find one, sir. Thank you for the invitation.” You walked out promptly, hiding your face from him, and the meaning of his words dawned on him. He hadn’t taken you to an event before. He also hadn’t ever looked at you as shamefully as he did moments before.
Half an inch. How could half an inch take down the man who would one day rule Panem?
