“Fuck,” Dan groaned.
Black lace. Low-cut, delicate, sitting against my hips like a piece of clothing that had no business being there.
He looked up at me with dark eyes, interest burning in them that hadn't been there thirty seconds ago.
“You want to say anything,” I said.
“No.” His voice had dropped an entire register. “No, I really don't.”
He pressed his mouth to the lace. His hands came up to my thighs, steadying me, thumbs pressing into the crease where leg met hip, and he just stayed there for a moment with his mouth open and warm through the thin material, like he was trying to memorize the shape of me through it.
“Dan—”
“Give me a second.” His hands moved over the lace like he was doing careful work, tracing the scalloped edge at my hip with a thumb that wasn't entirely steady. “Didn't expect this.”
“Neither did I, this morning.”
He stood up and kissed me again, and it was different this time.
“Sit on the desk,” he said.
I sat. He stepped between my knees with his hands on my thighs and kissed me until I had my fingers in his hair and was pulling him closer instead of thinking about staying detached. He was hard against me through his slacks. I could feel it when he pressed forward, and the sound he made when I reacheddown and got my hand between us was rough enough that it dragged up my spine like a wire.
“Your turn first,” I said against his mouth.
He pulled back and looked at me.
I slid off the desk and got his belt open faster than he'd gotten mine, got his slacks down enough, and when I wrapped my hand around him he made a sound that was sharp and almost pained, and his head tipped back against the window.
He was thick. Good-looking cock on a good-looking man, and I took my time with him, working the length with my fist first, watching his jaw go tight, watching him try to stay composed and fail at it incrementally. His hands found my shoulders, not pushing, just holding. Like he needed an anchor.
When I took him into my mouth he made a sound that bounced off the walls and then caught himself, muffled it into the back of his wrist. I worked him slow and thorough. Tasted salt and want, felt his fingers tighten against my shoulders every time I went deeper, every time I hollowed my cheeks and let the pressure build. His hips moved in short, helpless increments. Trying not to thrust, not managing it entirely.
I pulled off and looked up at him. His eyes were dark, unfocused, mouth open as he breathed hard.
“You taste good. Better than I expected.”
I took him deeper this time. Let him feel the back of my throat. Swallowed around him and felt his whole body go rigid, heard him curse under his breath in a way that sounded like a prayer. I worked him with my tongue, traced the underside of his cock, found the spot just beneath the head that made him shake.
I doubled down. Sucked harder, faster, one hand wrapping around what I couldn't fit in my mouth while the other gripped his hip to steady him. He was losing it. Could hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his fingers dug into my shoulders hard enough to bruise.
He pulled me off before he got too close. Hands under my arms, dragging me back up. “Not yet. Not like that.”
His eyes were darker than they'd been. He kissed me again and it was raw this time, control stripped out and left somewhere behind us. He got his hands under the lace, palms flat against my hips, and walked me backward until my spine hit the wall.
“I want to fuck you,” he said. Plainly. No performance in it.
“I know.”
He groaned at that, quiet and wrecked, forehead dropping to mine. One hand slid around to my lower back and the other stayed at my hip, thumb hooked under the lace waistband. He pulled me against him and I could feel how much he wanted it.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
“You. Behind me.”
He dropped back down to his knees and looked up at me with an expression that had gone past hungry into reverent, and my chest did a thing I hadn't given it permission to do.
He didn't take the lace off.
