He’s not entirely sure when ‘stop by the office to pick up some paperwork’ turned into ‘fuck me in the file room’ – somewhere, he guesses, between her hand slipping firm around the loop of his belt and the point where he unbuttoned her work blouse and ran his fingers over just where her tits spilled a little outside her bra – but hey he ain’t complaining, not with her bent over a cabinet, lime green panties dragged down around her knees and her ass fit snug up against his hips while he pounds her jackhammer-fast. She’s making way more noise than the vigilant, FBI-agent part of his brain is strictly comfortable with, but his dick likes it a lot, a lot ok, he’s harder than he’s been in ages, one of his hands clamped tight around the top of her hip and the other using the edge of the next cupboard over for leverage.
‘Fuck,’ he says, between breaths, ‘holy shit sugar holy – fuck.’ He pulls out and she looks at him over her shoulder, all pink lips and mussed-up hair, and he grins, pulls his head a little to the left, half-embarrassed. ‘Flip over,’ he says, wets his lips, and she makes another noise he really fucking likes and repositions so she can grab the handles of the drawers behind her and lean back into it, hold her own weight and spread her legs wide open, and he takes a second to breathe, remember it for later, rubs one palm slow up his stomach under his FBI shirt. Then he shuffles up between her thighs and pushes in again, braces one hand on the cabinet-top beside her and puts the other between them, rubs soft just above her clit while he pumps into her, slower this time, deep drag in and out, and when she stops panting long enough to say
‘oh my god I’m gonn-’ he puts his palm hard up over her mouth and feels the moist force of her scream, puts his whole weight into his hips and holds her to the table while she shakes and goes rigid around him.