I like that.
I break the kiss and bend, thighs screaming, hamstrings ready to defect, put one arm under her knees and the other around her back, palm cupping her breast, and she’s in my arms, then on my desk.
And I’m on my knees.
Ignoring the shaking muscles in my legs, which tremble from strain and desire, I part her legs, finding black silk, lace, and nothing but barrier. It’s beautiful, but this will not do.
“Not here!” she gasps, but her voice isn’t firm, the protest half-hearted, as if she needs to check a box on a list of How To Be Professional qualities she should have in the workplace. She’s turned on and ready, the illicit desk sex and my mouth too much to let her mount another argument, her head lolling back as I dive in, pushing aside the piece of cloth and finding my way to give.
Sunlight glints off the wedding ring on my hand as I reach back, my hand resting on her knee.
It’s the last thing I see until she chokes back a cry from her orgasm, her fingers pulling tightly on my hair, and begs me, “Please. In me. Now.” Normally talkative, Amanda loses access to part of the speech center of her brain as we spiral deeper into lust and passion. It’s a tell.
I love this tell.
Within seconds, the bike shorts are across the room, and we’re on the floor, her skirt around my hips, Amanda riding me. Not only is this one of my favorite positions, but she doesn’t know that my legs are so blown from Vince’s workout that I’m not sure I could remain standing for any testosterone-injected positions that require balance or strength.
Not going to admit that, so instead, I let her take the lead, which kills two orgasms with one stone. Or something like that. My own speech center is devolving as she moves up, the friction turning me into an animal, atavistic and primal.
Besides, this leaves both hands free, which means I can unbutton her shirt, unleash her breasts, and watch her beautiful face as she rides me, coming with a tight clench and a full-throated cry, her face flushed and lips parted, one look at her pushing me over.
As we come together, I stare at the sight of my left hand on her breast, the ring stroking her sweet nipple, my mind processing only this as my body roars with a pulse and thrusts that move us up to a new layer of abandon.
She leans down for an open kiss, her mouth pausing as a small pulse ripples between us, a little more that usually comes from her after the main event, as if her body isn’t quite done with her yet, like a stinger at the end of a Marvel Comics movie.
Hair. Suddenly, I’m surrounded by long, lush hair, covering my cheeks and neck, tickling me. Her uncovered torso presses into mine, her body loose and liquid, hands curled on my sweaty shoulders, her nose in my ear.
“God, I needed that,” she mutters.
“You needed that? You?”
“It’s been two days.”
“I know it’s been two days.” I tighten, making myself twitch inside her, which unleashes a torrent of giggles from her. “But you turned me down last night.” My booty text went unanswered. Same thing as rejection.
“Did not!”
“Did too.”
“Are we seriously going to fight about sex while I am still pulsing around you? Not the best management technique, Mr. McCormick!”
“You’re not my employee. It’s not as if we’re acting out a scene from ‘Who Moved My Cheese,’ Amanda.”
She laughs. The movement pushes me out of her.
Bzzzzz.
“Mr. McCormick?” It’s Gina, on the damn intercom Dad insists we use.
Insisted. Past tense. He’s no longer CEO. Note to self: abolish the intercoms and just use texting.
“You answering that?” Amanda rolls off me and onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, her eyes darting to catch mine as I stand, slowly, and look down on her.
What a vision. Skirt around her hips, thigh-highs slipped to her knees, her panties hanging off the edge of my trash can in my peripheral vision, she’s all creamy skin covered at the edges by lightweight gray wool and white business cloth. Her hair slips over the carpet like an oil slick, lips red and raw from kissing, her expression telling me everything her body just said.
“Thank you,” she whispers, eyes digging into my soul, slowly standing and beginning to re-cover that which belongs fully exposed for my eyes to feast on.
“Thank you.”
“We’re a grateful pair.” Her left hand comes up and strokes my cheek.
Her hand is bare.
My solar plexus curls up into a shriveled ball, like a tiny leaf after the first fall frost. I shouldn’t be bothered by her lack of a ring, but I am.
I am, deeply.
All the pain Vince injected into my muscles comes roaring into my center, aimed straight for the safe confines of a compartment inside my heart. The unbearable ache of the journey is nothing compared to the agony of closing the door on that shattered piece of me.
This should not bother me.
It does.
I should not let it hurt so much.
But I do.
I do.
Post-sex bliss drains out of me like I’ve been slashed, mugged for the bounty of some richness inside me and left to bleed to death. Amanda’s chin is pointed down as she looks at her buttons, and my chest spasms, threatening to rip a sound from my throat that I can’t let myself make.
I’m ice cold, then burning hot. My legs tremble and tense, my arms itching to touch her, to smack her, to make her want what I want.
To make her want me.
“What’s wrong?”
I don’t pretend. “You’re not wearing your ring.”
“We’re not married, silly!” she says with a laugh that dies as she looks at me.