I tip my chin up and let my head fall back against his chest.
He leans down to press a kiss to the side of my neck. It’s gentle and fleeting. I barely feel it and still my heart races wildly. I’m waiting, hoping. God, I’m scared about what will happen, but more than that, I’m scared that nothing will happen. I’m scared there’s still a “but we can’t” waiting for me. That all at once, he’ll snuff out the match we’ve just lit.
I turn my head to the side so I can peer up at him.
His brown eyes assess me with a sultry glare and his grip tightens even more. I swear he’s weighing his options, as if even now, he still might walk away.
My eyes narrow as if to say, Do it already, and slowly, a devious smile spreads across his lips just as his hand dips between my upper thighs. He’s so close to touching me where I’m desperate for it. So close.
“Now…what’s the real reason you came to my office today, Elizabeth?”
His arrogance makes it impossible for me to give him the real, vulnerable answer.
“To say hi.”
He chuckles again.
“So that’s the story you’re sticking to? Because this skirt says something different.”
I shiver as a blush spreads across my body. I hate that I’m that easy to figure out. I hate that he spoke the words out loud, and worse, I hate that I can’t refute them.
“I’ve owned this skirt for years,” I fire back, trying to deflect.
“And yet…I think you wore it to my office today because you wanted this to happen.”
I don’t argue, and he rewards me with honesty of his own.
“I’ll go to bed tonight dreaming of you in this skirt,” he says, barely above a whisper.
Then his hand finally slides up between my legs, right over the middle of my panties. My back arches away from his chest as I ache for him to continue.
Just the barest touch is almost too much. It’s been too long, my body too starved, too impatient.
He keeps my panties in place, covering me as his finger glides across me. The barrier makes me even more needy, like I’m seconds away from breaking out in a sweat. Panting. Angry. Pleading. Just…touch me! I want to shout. Instead, I pinch my eyes closed, trying not to feel overwhelmed.
His hard length brushes against me, and my breath catches in my chest. He doesn’t stop touching me over my panties even as I wiggle against him impatiently.
He takes my left hand and drops it on the edge of the desk so I can support myself as he starts to bend me forward at an angle. I open my eyes and set my other hand down too as he steps back.
Jesus.
This is wildly inappropriate. I shouldn’t be here, posed this way for him. I can feel cool air brushing the back of my thighs as he pushes the hem of my skirt up and over my hips. I know how exposed I am to him like this. I can imagine the way my panties cut across my butt, revealing more than concealing. This position gives him so much power and yet heat gathers and grows as he stays where he is, taking me in. I feel so vulnerable and still, my body more than prepared when he reaches out, hooks a finger in either side of my underwear, and starts to tug them down my legs.
“Don’t move,” he instructs harshly, his voice hoarse with need.
My panties fall to my knees and then they drop to my ankles, so delicate and sweet compared to my black boots.
He steps back, breaking our connection, and I squeeze my eyes closed, realizing then how much I’m trembling. This pose is a hair’s breadth away from humiliating, especially when he keeps his distance, almost lazily looking at me like I’m a possession propped up on a shelf, his to look at.
“Elizabeth.”
I don’t move a muscle. Just like he asked.
With a groan he mostly stifles under his breath, he comes toward me and gathers me up off of the desk, hauls me against him, and wraps a hand around my stomach to keep me in place. Then he reaches down and slides his right hand between my thighs to cover me reverently, finally skin to skin. His hand teases between my legs as I try to keep them from buckling underneath me.
I’m slick with need, and he only makes it worse. There’s no easing or dousing the desire building up inside of me. One touch makes me burn for another. I’m a mouse with a cookie, wanting more.
His hard length is impossible to ignore, but there’s not enough room for me to reach my hand between us and do anything about it. He has us pressed body to body. Besides, I don’t think he wants that. He seems intent on running the show, touching me, pleasing me.