“I can work with that,” he says, sliding his fingers between my lips, pinching my clit between them, making me jolt against the desk, digging into my hips.
“Fuck,” I grit out.
He keeps stroking my clit, not pressing inside of me. He’s leisurely with it, like he isn’t in a rush, like he doesn’t have to get back to work and like he actually cares if I finish or not.
I’d have been fine if he slipped the condom on and fucked me. At least I’d taken the first step in the right direction on taking my life into my own hands.
Instead, he kisses my neck and continues grinding against my ass while he toys with me.
I know I’m drenching his fingers. He knows it too. “You’re so wet. This pussy was meant to be fucked. You want it so bad, don’t you? God, I know you want it so bad,” he says, nibbling on my ear, and smelling my hair?
When he pushes two fingers inside of me, I gasp at the sensation of having someone else touch me this way and how good it feels. I can hear how wet I am, and he likes it, so do I.
His other hand leaves my bra, sliding up to my neck, before shifting back down. I want to grab his wrist and bring his hand back, but I’m barely holding myself up on the table.
His touch is gone, except his fingers pressing inside of me as he opens a drawer next to us, grabbing a condom.
“Are you sure you don’t take all the girls up here to fuck in your boss’s office?” I ask again.
He laughs behind me. It’s deep and sensual.
“Only the special ones,” he says, his fingers slipping out of me and I nearly whine.
The leather of his belt sliding through his pant loops, and the click of his buckle has my back arching. The rip of the foil packet of the condom has me licking my lips in anticipation. I have no idea how big he is, no idea how good he looks sliding the condom over his cock, but in my imagination he looks sexy and assured.
No matter how badly I want to see it in person, I don’t turn around in fear that I’ll completely lose my nerve.
He grabs the waistband of my panties, pressing them down my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He’s big. I knew he would be. You don’t walk around with that much confidence unless you have the dick to match, and he presses forward.
I’m so wet that I can feel the evidence of my arousal on my thighs.
He pushes inside of me, not in a hurry. One of his hands lands on my hip as the other wraps around my waist, his talented fingers back on my clit.
His breath fans against the nape of my neck as he stretches me. He’s bigger than the toy I use and I’m biting my lip, adjusting to his width.
“That’s good, Kate,” he says, and a shiver rips out of me against my will.
How bad have I wanted this? Someone to talk me through it?
He moans lightly against my ear, pushing more of himself deep inside of me.
“You feel so good. Made to be fucked. So wet. So tight.”
He’s sliding my clit between his two fingers, applying more pressure as he bottoms out, his hips flush with my ass.
“Good?” he asks.
“Mmmhmm. G-ood. So fucking good, don’t stop,” I tell him, I might combust if he doesn’t start moving again.
I thought feelings were the part of sex that made it good. I’d had hoped I was wrong, and thankfully this well endowed, ridiculously hot masterpiece behind me was blowing my fucking mind.
Because this felt right.
There weren’t any feelings, just consideration for wanting to make each other feel good mixed with unrelenting hormones and need.
“What do you want, Kate?”
God, the way he keeps saying my name is going to give me a complex. It sounds sultry and has me feeling needy and overeager to please. As badly as I want to come and walk away from this experience with a new person, I want him to remember me too.
