Video:
The office is quiet after 9 p.m., just the soft glow of my desk lamp and the distant hum of the city far below the 32nd floor. Everyone else has gone home hours ago, but I’m still here—fingers flying over the keyboard, finishing the presentation that’s due tomorrow. My blouse is unbuttoned at the top from the long day, sleeves rolled up, skirt riding a little higher on my thighs from shifting in the chair.
He’s the last one left too—the senior partner who always stays late, the one whose deep voice during meetings makes my pulse skip. Tonight he walks past my open door, pauses, then steps in without knocking. He’s loosened his tie, jacket gone, white shirt sleeves folded to his elbows, revealing strong forearms.
“Still burning the midnight oil?” he asks, leaning against my desk, eyes tracing the line of my neck down to where the blouse gaps open just enough to tease.
“Deadlines don’t sleep,” I reply, but my voice comes out breathier than I planned. I don’t stop typing—yet.
He moves behind me, hands resting lightly on the back of my chair. I feel the heat of him before he even touches me. “You’ve been working too hard,” he murmurs, close enough that his breath brushes my ear. One hand slides forward, fingers grazing my shoulder, then down my arm—slow, deliberate.
I finally turn my chair toward him. Our eyes lock. No words. Just the thick tension that’s been building for months.
He pulls me up gently, hands settling on my waist, thumbs stroking the silk of my blouse. I step into him, palms flat against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under the crisp shirt. His mouth finds mine—slow at first, testing, then deeper when I open for him, tongues sliding together in a kiss that’s been waiting too long.
His hands move with purpose now—unbuttoning my blouse one button at a time, letting it fall open to reveal the lace bra underneath. He groans softly when he sees how my breasts strain against the delicate fabric, nipples already tight and visible. He cups them, thumbs circling the peaks through lace until I arch into his touch with a quiet gasp.
I tug at his shirt, pulling it free from his belt, fingers exploring the hard lines of his abs, the trail of hair leading lower. He backs me up until my hips hit the edge of the desk. Papers scatter, but neither of us cares.
He lifts me easily onto the desk, stepping between my thighs, pushing my skirt higher until it bunches at my waist. His palm slides up my inner thigh—slow, teasing—until he reaches the lace panties already soaked through. He presses firmly, feeling how ready I am, and his low growl sends heat flooding through me.
“Tell me you’ve thought about this,” he says against my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin.
“Every meeting,” I confess, voice trembling. “Every time you looked at me across the conference table.”
That breaks the last of his restraint.
He hooks his fingers into my panties and tugs them down, letting them drop to the floor. Then he’s on his knees—mouth hot and wet against me, tongue tracing slow, deliberate circles around that swollen, aching spot. My hands grip his hair as he licks deeper, teasing my entrance before sucking gently, expertly, until my thighs shake and I’m grinding against his face.
I come fast and hard the first time—waves crashing through me, his name on my lips as I clench and pulse against his tongue.
He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with hunger. I reach for his belt, freeing him—thick, hot, pulsing in my hand as I stroke slowly. He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking into my touch.
He pulls me to the edge of the desk, notches himself at my entrance, and pushes in slowly—inch by thick inch—stretching me perfectly until he’s buried deep. We both moan at the feeling.
He starts slow—long, deep strokes that hit every sensitive spot inside. The desk creaks softly beneath us, city lights twinkling through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a silent audience. His hands grip my hips, guiding me to meet every thrust.
The pace builds—harder, faster—skin slapping against skin, my breathless cries mixing with his low groans. One hand slips between us, thumb circling that throbbing pearl in perfect rhythm.
“Come with me,” he growls, voice rough. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”
I do—shattering a second time, clenching tight around him in pulsing waves that pull him over the edge with me. He thrusts deep one last time, spilling hot and thick inside me with a ragged groan, hips grinding slow to draw out every last pulse.
We stay like that—panting, trembling—foreheads pressed together, the office silent except for our breathing.
He kisses me softly now, almost tender. “This isn’t over,” he whispers against my lips. “Next time… I want you bent over my desk. Blindfolded. Waiting for me.”
My body clenches at the thought, already wanting more.
To be continued…
Head to my website for Part 2—dropping tomorrow night. You won’t want to miss what he does to me next. Trust me… it gets even hotter.
