precedes his hot tongue tracing my lower lip, a tickle that
makes me instinctively open my mouth for him. His deep growl and the abrupt,
aggressive surge of his tongue against mine take me unprepared. I whimper and
shift nervously against him, until he uses his free hand to gather my long
blond hair and hold my head still, to hold my mouth to his.
That feeling is back again,
the one from our moment in the dark parking lot that night. Fear and
uncertainty chased by voracious, shameless need. When he pulls my hair and I
moan into his hard kiss, he smiles against my lips and drives his tongue into
my mouth in a blatantly sexual rhythm, coiling around my tongue and tasting me
thoroughly.
My mind is a jumble of
confusion and conflict. What about professionalism, propriety? I’m a
businesswoman standing out in the open in the middle of the afternoon with my
client pulling my hair and tongue-fucking my mouth while I moan and cling to
him. My cunt doesn’t care about appearances, overruling my brain by stirring
flashes of how good and naughty and slutty it would feel to have Garret push me
back against one of the cars, rip off my skirt, unzip his pants.
When I’m afraid I’m going to
beg him to do exactly that, I tear my mouth from his, breathing hard.
“Meeting?” I say in an almost pleading voice.
He’s panting, too, and fuck
if he doesn’t look like seven different, delicious kinds of sin, with his lips
wet from kissing me. “Meeting,” he mutters in agreement, but that wicked glint
is still shining in his eyes.
In Garret’s office, at a
small conference table with his secretary and finance manager, I struggle to
concentrate. It’s not as though Garret is sitting beside me, whispering naughty
things to me or feeling me up under the table. He doesn’t have to. My
imagination is doing the work for him. He takes off his suit jacket, and my
mind proceeds to strip him of his shirt and tie as well, speculating on what
his chest and abs would look like tensed in the ecstasy of a hard climax. My
reactions to him become acute. Every glance from him seems flirtatious, his
tone too intimate, enthralling. Yet the other two people at the table don’t
seem to notice anything amiss.
When Garret tells his manager
and secretary that he can wrap things up with me and dismisses them, I watch
anxiously, breathlessly as they gather their notes and coffee mugs and wander
out while chatting about miscellaneous business. In the sudden quiet, Garret
stands and circles the smooth, light wood table toward me. His steps swish
against the soft cream carpeting, just audible over my fidgeting as I shuffle
through my paperwork unnecessarily. I fight the urge to rise to meet him, to
fling myself into his arms and another kiss like the one outside in the parking
lot.
He leans over me from behind,
one hand on the back of the white leather office chair, one on the arm. I smell
cedar and spices and rainwater, and I can taste his mouth again. The back of my
neck prickles with apprehension and anticipation.
“Who did you have in mind for
the guest list next month?” he asks, his breath warm against my temple.
Quickly, so he won’t see my
hands trembling, I flip open one of the black leather portfolios on the table
in front of me and begin to point out names—businesspeople, politicians,
long-time philanthropists. Garret makes approving sounds, a “yes” or “I see”
thrown in now and again, his lips getting closer and closer to my ear. His hot
sigh against my skin sends an electric ripple of shivers over my shoulders and
back. I want to squirm in my chair, arch my spine, turn my face up for his
kisses.
At last, I turn the final
page in the folder, struggling to swallow and gather a calming breath. My chest
and throat don’t want to cooperate. “That’s it. Those are all the details we
need to settle today.”
“Good,” he says in a deep
groan and moves to action. One hand tugs my hair and my face back for another
possessive,
makes me instinctively open my mouth for him. His deep growl and the abrupt,
aggressive surge of his tongue against mine take me unprepared. I whimper and
shift nervously against him, until he uses his free hand to gather my long
blond hair and hold my head still, to hold my mouth to his.
That feeling is back again,
the one from our moment in the dark parking lot that night. Fear and
uncertainty chased by voracious, shameless need. When he pulls my hair and I
moan into his hard kiss, he smiles against my lips and drives his tongue into
my mouth in a blatantly sexual rhythm, coiling around my tongue and tasting me
thoroughly.
My mind is a jumble of
confusion and conflict. What about professionalism, propriety? I’m a
businesswoman standing out in the open in the middle of the afternoon with my
client pulling my hair and tongue-fucking my mouth while I moan and cling to
him. My cunt doesn’t care about appearances, overruling my brain by stirring
flashes of how good and naughty and slutty it would feel to have Garret push me
back against one of the cars, rip off my skirt, unzip his pants.
When I’m afraid I’m going to
beg him to do exactly that, I tear my mouth from his, breathing hard.
“Meeting?” I say in an almost pleading voice.
He’s panting, too, and fuck
if he doesn’t look like seven different, delicious kinds of sin, with his lips
wet from kissing me. “Meeting,” he mutters in agreement, but that wicked glint
is still shining in his eyes.
In Garret’s office, at a
small conference table with his secretary and finance manager, I struggle to
concentrate. It’s not as though Garret is sitting beside me, whispering naughty
things to me or feeling me up under the table. He doesn’t have to. My
imagination is doing the work for him. He takes off his suit jacket, and my
mind proceeds to strip him of his shirt and tie as well, speculating on what
his chest and abs would look like tensed in the ecstasy of a hard climax. My
reactions to him become acute. Every glance from him seems flirtatious, his
tone too intimate, enthralling. Yet the other two people at the table don’t
seem to notice anything amiss.
When Garret tells his manager
and secretary that he can wrap things up with me and dismisses them, I watch
anxiously, breathlessly as they gather their notes and coffee mugs and wander
out while chatting about miscellaneous business. In the sudden quiet, Garret
stands and circles the smooth, light wood table toward me. His steps swish
against the soft cream carpeting, just audible over my fidgeting as I shuffle
through my paperwork unnecessarily. I fight the urge to rise to meet him, to
fling myself into his arms and another kiss like the one outside in the parking
lot.
He leans over me from behind,
one hand on the back of the white leather office chair, one on the arm. I smell
cedar and spices and rainwater, and I can taste his mouth again. The back of my
neck prickles with apprehension and anticipation.
“Who did you have in mind for
the guest list next month?” he asks, his breath warm against my temple.
Quickly, so he won’t see my
hands trembling, I flip open one of the black leather portfolios on the table
in front of me and begin to point out names—businesspeople, politicians,
long-time philanthropists. Garret makes approving sounds, a “yes” or “I see”
thrown in now and again, his lips getting closer and closer to my ear. His hot
sigh against my skin sends an electric ripple of shivers over my shoulders and
back. I want to squirm in my chair, arch my spine, turn my face up for his
kisses.
At last, I turn the final
page in the folder, struggling to swallow and gather a calming breath. My chest
and throat don’t want to cooperate. “That’s it. Those are all the details we
need to settle today.”
“Good,” he says in a deep
groan and moves to action. One hand tugs my hair and my face back for another
possessive,
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