“Right. Not a team player,” he says with a hint of good-natured ribbing. He glances at the lobby one more time, probably doing the mental math on that statement and how ready I’d been to climb him yesterday.
Of course, all the work I've been putting into cooling off and holding my need at bay disappears barely a few words into our conversation.
A flush of warmth overtakes my cheeks. My eyes rake over him without my permission. “Something like that.”
The heat in my stare must be overwhelmingly evident, or he sees the way my features take the barest shifts to attune to him, because realization inches into his face.
“Oh. Oh.”
I jam my finger into the elevator button again, and mutter with a little too much frustration, “Is it broken or something now?”
He glances around, cool as a cucumber. Or, let's be real, he's probably more like those prize-winning zucchinis.
I glance around and try not to utterly despair when the elevator doors open and there's a guy on a ladder in there, peeking out of the ceiling and clearly replacing a lightbulb.
I'm not falling apart at the seams yet, but I start to unravel, just a bit.
“Is it hotel lobbies that set this off?” Vlad asks. I think if I weren’t horny specifically for the way he smiles, the note of amusement in his voice wouldn’t have the reaction it has now.
“Yes, that's the one common thread,” I sigh, pressing my face to the cold metal pane of the elevator doors after they shutter closed again. I'm dreading doing ten floors of stairs. I glance back to the conference room I’d used in a pinch last night, but there’s some stragglers from the meeting still occupying it, chatting away like they have all the time in the world.
We pause in our little not-bantering, and I allow myself to look fully at him. He looks a little ragged himself. He still looks put together, of course, not a wrinkle on him. But there’s a bit of wearing under his eyes from the long day, the top button on his shirt is undone.
I don't think I've ever salivated over a single undone button.
My attention holds on that little space of neck, collarbone, and the barest hint of chest that had been concealed until that moment. I feel like a period romance heroine swooning over well-formed calves, the way heat rises in my chest.
Distantly, I think about curling my fingers around the edges of his shirt in that space, and ripping it open, sending buttons flying everywhere. We’d never recover all of them.
No, no. Keep it professional.
He nods towards one of the hallways, a simple gesture that is too smooth for me to steel myself against when I spot the phone closet he's pointing out.
“Part two?” he murmurs.
My heart drops out of my chest and wedges into the spot between my legs.
This is the weirdest thing for work friends to do. Not that we're really friends. Or even work friends. I mean, I guess maybe we're friends? I like him well enough. He's nice, in a way that no one has been in a while.
The phone closet is small and a little dim, but there’s a seat on one side and an old payphone on the wall, a dusty phonebook sitting on top of it.
He shuts the door behind me, I scramble to lock it before I can make a bad decision like grabbing his shirt collar and pulling him in with me. In my fervor, I slip an indelicate finger inside myself, stirring up the sensations that have been pooling down there.
It was still pleasure, but not as brazen and stark as when I stroked my clit last time, rather like a rumble from deep underground. It fills the space that is aching from emptiness. It is a soft, deeper feeling that brings pleasure gradually as my knuckles bump clumsily against my entrance.
I stroke, I thrust, and I grope, but it isn’t working. This isn’t doing nearly enough for me.
If this were any regular masturbation where I was just overstimulated and needed to cool off before I could finish, I would just tap out and try again later. But the need in my core is making my knees shake. The various feelings swirling in me are too much to just ignore for later.
I keep going, listening hard for any sign of Vlad, hoping to catch the sound of his breath, the shift of his shadow at the edge of the door, anything that would make the urgency in me burn readily like it was just a few moments ago.
Him being nearby isn’t enough this time, and it feels like my release is ever further away, constantly slipping out of reach whenever I think I have it. My hands are tired and achy. As much as I want to stop and just rest, I think my body will feel worse if I do.
I let my head fall back against the wall and make a sound of frustration. I don’t know what to do.
He answers the mere hint of my frustration, doesn’t wait for me to ask. “Everything all right?”
I sigh and consider it.
