Switch (Landry Family 3)

“Fine,” I say, starting to sit up. “Give me a kiss and let me get to my date. I’m sure he’d be glad to—Ahhh!”

My breath leaves me in a quick, hasty gush as he fills me completely. My legs shake around him, my eyes fluttering closed as I hear him chuckle.

“What were you saying?” he asks cheekily. I don’t get to respond before he slides out of me, the head of his cock stretching my opening, before he slips into me again. “I can’t hear you.”

“God,” I moan, tilting my pelvis to give him more access to every piece of me.

His hands find my waist and guide my body off and on his. His length pushes through me, splitting my body open in ways it’s never been pushed, kissing the back wall of my vagina.

It’s a decadent, wonderful feeling—almost painful but not quite. His speed hastens, his movements more decided, as he deepens his thrusts.

“Graham,” I warn, my body squeaking against the glass. A thought begins to tickle my mind, wondering if anyone can hear us or see us through the windows. Just as that panic begins to settle in, his fingers squeeze me harder as he rocks himself against me.

My arms fly to the side, his stapler crashing to the floor in an unceremonious thump. In and out, he slides through my wetness, my thighs coated with how badly I want him. Need him. Need this.

“Open your eyes,” he demands, kicking up the tempo another notch. It’s nearly unbearable in the most blissful way. Everything is louder—my body against the desk, his against mine. Everything is hotter—the sex-scented air swirling around us, his cologne as it’s heated from the sweat dotting his forehead. Everything is just more as I lose control and

my knees drop to the side. “Eyes, Mallory. Open. There’s no visualizing shit but me right now.”

When I do open them, his are nearly burning a hole through me. I fight the urge to close them, to relish in all the feelings sparking through me like a fire show.

I release a moan, much louder than I anticipate. “Graham, I . . .”

He smirks again, the pad of one thumb hitting my clit. He rubs small, firm circles against the overstimulated bud and it’s like a match has been struck. There’s no going back.

“I can’t . . .” I suck in a breath of air, rocking my legs back so my knees are bent in the air. He pushes me towards the end of the desk as he buries himself in me over and over and over. “Graham!” I shriek, knowing I shouldn’t, given the situation, but I’m in a state of total helplessness.

My body riots, tightens around him, a part of it wanting to desperately pull away and the other wanting him to slam into me harder—none of which I can vocalize. I just feel the burn, enjoy the explosion and the feel of his cock swelling as he pushes one final time.

I force my eyes to open and watch him lose control. As I fight the end of my climax, I watch him come apart inside of me.

His head thrown back, his mouth hanging open, is so, so sexy and causes a ripple of orgasm to course through me again.

My legs quiver involuntarily as he groans into the air. I try to hold myself in place for his benefit, but my body is too tired. My hips fall back to the desk as he opens his eyes and slowly pulls out.

We catch our breath, me still on the desk and him standing before me like a man that just conquered the world. Now, post-climax, I’m more self-conscious.

As quickly as I can, I swing my legs off the desk and stand on my shaky stems. I avoid his eyes, even though I know they’re on me.

Tucking my boobs back into my bra and finding my dress on the floor, I finally raise my gaze to his. “That was better than a kiss,” I say with a smile. I leave him standing in the middle of his office, his jaw hanging open, as I head into the bathroom I saw him go into earlier. As the lights flip on and the door closes behind me, I fall against the wall breathless.

Graham

IT TAKES THREE TRIES TO get my belt secured. I don’t even attempt my tie.

I may have gotten off, but I’m still fucking high on her. There is no after-sex dump, no bottoming out of desire that makes you feel human again.

The door opens and I pivot on my heel without thinking. She’s standing in my office, no worse for the wear. The only indication of the last few minutes is a little plumpness to her lips and a ruffle of her hair.

The fact that she looks more beautiful post-coitus is disconcerting. An orgasm is supposed to bring you to your senses. It’s supposed to quell the hunger, make you think logically and feel less needy. So why that isn’t working in my favor now is worrisome. Why am I still considering kissing her, sitting her on the loveseat and asking about Columbia and business school and yoga?

Neither of us speaks. We stand, fidgeting, as we feel out the other. The twinkle of anxiety isn’t hidden in her eyes, the shuffle of her heels against the floor another flag that she’s unsure of where we stand.

I would offer her some comfort if I could find it. Truth is, I don’t fucking know where we stand now either. I’d like to be able to see her Monday morning and not feel like . . . this. There has to be a solution.

“I’ll make reservations at Zuva. My friend Fenton Abbott has been asking me to try his new restaurant anyway,” I say, clearing my throat while I search for my discarded tie. “We can talk there.”

Fresh air would do us both some good, maybe clear out the pheromones still swirling around my office. She doesn’t answer, but when I look at her, she’s smiling. Good sign.