I shiver at the featherlight touch.
Griffin pauses, looks around, then guides me toward an ornate wrought-iron bench in a verdant alcove, somewhat secluded from the rest of the garden. He sits down and pulls me onto his lap.
Straddling him, I thread my fingers through his belt loops.
He’s so hard.
He hitches me up higher on him and—oh, sweet lord.
His hardness aligns perfectly with the ache between my legs. I moan involuntary. On instinct, I grind my hips against him. I start to apologize but he just says, “Don’t be sorry,” and cups my ass so that there’s no gap between us.
His cock strains against his pants and I can feel its full shape, its glorious pressure.
“Is this still okay?” Griffin asks, panting.
Breathless, I nod my reply.
His lips find mine again. I grind harder, chasing the high he’s given me a taste of.
This can’t be a good idea, I tell myself.
In our day-to-day lives, we work together. Not closely, sure, and not the same way two colleagues in the same office work together, but … this could complicate a lot of things for me—for my career—if he’s someone who can’t be discreet. Couldn’t it?
What’s this whole scene going to look like tomorrow, in reflection?
I think about putting a stop to what’s happening, but the tension inside me only builds, and I want more and more desperately to release it. I’m like an instrument and he’s plucking all the right strings, pressing all the right keys, getting sounds out of me that I shouldn’t make out in the open.
I’m so close. Am I really about to do this here? Now?
“Griffin,” I say. “If we keep going, I’m going to—” I cut myself off with another involuntary sound of pleasure.
“I know,” he breathes against my collarbone. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
“But …”
I don’t quite know how to express my concern. First, of course, is how exposed we are—even though we’re apparently alone. Second is that this feels like a one-way street; what he’s doing to me, I can’t do to do him. Not without him having to change his jeans afterward. I highly doubt he’s brought an extra pair.
“Shhh,” he says. “Don’t worry about me.”
Wanting to argue, but wanting more to finish, I obey. I concentrate on the outline of him, where and how his hardness touches me.
Our clothes are an infuriating barrier, but we work through them. I let him—encourage him to—grope and caress and kiss whatever he wants. He is hesitant, at times, like maybe he’safraid to cross a line, which makes me even more attracted to him.
The hair along his jaw tantalizes the swells of my breasts. I imagine what it would feel like if I were completely bare to him, and that starts to push me to my edge.
He’s even harder now, denim taut.
Thank God my leather pants are so fitted, getting us as close as possible under the circumstances.
I kept grinding, seeking more friction. A minute later, I find it—the sweet spot.
I’m holding fistfuls of his baby-blue dress shirt when my body goes rigid and I cry out.
He holds me to him so I don’t lose pressure while the blissful spasms rock me from the inside.
“Griffin …” I practically choke.
The carnal part of me wishes I could feel him more deeply, but for now this is enough. For now, I am satisfied.
