Office After Hours: Part 3

I wore the skirt the next time I stayed late.

Black, knee-length, fitted enough that it moved when I walked. No tights. The blouse above it was simple, the top two buttons left open because I already knew how he looked at my throat. By 8:40 the floor was empty again. The cleaning crew had come and gone. Only the soft glow from his corner office and the single lamp at my desk remained.

I finished the last section of the revised report, saved it, and walked the short distance to his open door.

Mr. Calder was standing at the window with his back to me, phone to his ear, speaking in low, clipped sentences to someone in another time zone. He didn’t turn when I stepped inside. I set the folder on his desk and waited.

He ended the call, slipped the phone into his pocket, and finally looked at me.

His eyes moved over the skirt in one slow pass. Approval, dark and immediate, settled in his expression.

“Close the door,” he said.

I closed it. The soft click of the latch sounded louder than it should have in the quiet.

He walked toward me without hurry. When he reached me he didn’t speak. He simply put one hand on my hip, turned me to face the desk, and pressed me forward with the weight of his body until my palms flattened against the cool surface.

“Stay like that.”

I stayed.

He stood behind me, close enough that I felt the heat of him through our clothes. His hands settled on my waist, then slid down over the curve of my ass, smoothing the fabric of the skirt. When he reached the hem he paused, giving me one last second to change my mind.

I didn’t move.

He pushed the skirt up slowly, gathering it at my waist. The air-conditioned coolness of the office hit the bare skin of my thighs and the thin lace of my underwear. A low sound left him when he saw what I had chosen—dark, minimal, already damp in the center.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

Two fingers hooked in the waistband and dragged the underwear down to mid-thigh. He left it there, restricting the way I could open my legs. Then his hand slid between my thighs from behind, two fingers gliding through the wetness that had been building since I put the skirt on that morning.

“You’ve been thinking about this all day,” he said. Not a question.

“Yes.”

He stroked me once, twice, deliberate and unhurried, before pulling his hand away. I heard the quiet sound of his belt, the lowered zipper. A moment later the thick, hot head of his cock pressed against me. He rubbed it through my folds, coating himself, and then pushed in with one steady thrust that forced the air from my lungs.

I bit down on a sound.

He filled me completely, stretching me around him until his hips sat flush against my ass. For a second he stayed still, letting me feel every inch. Then he started to move.

Deep, controlled strokes that made the heavy desk shift a fraction with each one. One of his hands gripped my hip hard enough to bruise. The other settled between my shoulder blades, holding me down against the wood. The position left me open and helpless in the best way. Every thrust dragged against the sensitive spot inside me until my thighs started to tremble.

“Quiet,” he reminded me, voice rough. “Security still walks the floors.”

I nodded against the desk, biting my lip hard enough to sting. The wet sound of him fucking me filled the office—soft, rhythmic, unmistakable. My fingers curled against the polished surface. He kept the pace steady and deep, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every minute of it.

When he reached around and found my clit with two fingers, my whole body jerked. He rubbed tight circles in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation shoved me toward the edge far too fast.

“Already?” he asked, almost amused. “I’ve barely started.”

I couldn’t answer. A broken sound escaped anyway. He covered my mouth with his free hand and kept going, thrusting harder now, the desk creaking faintly under us. The orgasm hit like a punch—sharp, intense, my body clamping down around him in hard pulses while I cried out against his palm. He fucked me through it without slowing, drawing it out until my legs shook so badly he had to hold me up.

Only when the trembling eased did he pull out.

I made a small sound of protest. He ignored it, spun me around, and lifted me onto the edge of the desk in one motion. My underwear was still tangled around one thigh. He pushed my knees wider, stepped between them, and drove back into me in a single thrust that made me gasp.

This angle was deeper. More intimate. He could see my face. I could see the dark focus in his eyes as he started moving again—harder, less controlled than before. One hand braced beside my hip. The other wrapped lightly around my throat, not squeezing, just holding.

“Look at me while I come in you,” he said.

I did.

His rhythm broke on a low groan. He buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside me in thick, hot pulses, hips jerking against mine. I felt every one of them. The sensation set off another smaller wave of pleasure that left me soft and trembling under him.

For a long moment neither of us moved. The only sounds were our breathing and the distant hum of the building’s air system. His forehead rested briefly against mine. Then he straightened, pulled out carefully, and watched with dark satisfaction as his come began to slip out of me onto the desk.

He fixed his clothes first—zipper, belt, the professional armor sliding back into place. Then he reached down, slid my underwear back up my legs, and smoothed my skirt into place like he was dressing a doll. The fabric clung damply between my thighs.

When he was finished he stepped back, eyes still on me.

“Same time Thursday,” he said quietly. “I have a late call. Be here when it ends.”

I slid off the desk on unsteady legs. My body felt used and marked in a way that already made me want more.

“Yes, sir.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Good. Now go home, Maya. And don’t clean up until you get there. I want you to feel it the entire way.”

I left his office with the evidence of what he had done to me still warm and slick between my legs, the city lights blurring beyond the windows, and the certain knowledge that Thursday could not come soon enough.