You’re just down the hall from your office and your back’s against the wall and the guy who’s been in the archive room all day, going by your desk, winking, eating frosted donuts and licking the powder off his lips, he’s standing in front of you: not crowding, not too close, no, but firmly there (and firm, under the cheap white dress shirt, you’ve not not-noticed), and he’s eyefucking you in the most respectful way possible. It’s taking a conscious effort to keep your hips from swaying towards him.
You lick your lips and say ‘is there some place we can go?’
His lips tighten, a flicker. Not anger. Satisfaction, and your belly starts to ache.
He pulls you into the stairwell and presses you back against the wall. There’s a second, two, where he holds his face a little away from yours, lips open, eyes dancing. You move against him, reflexive, but he’s got a hand on either side of your face and he’s holding you there, suspended between him and the wall and the surface of the world. The butterflies below your breastbone start to ricochet skyward.
‘You want it, hey?’ he says, not insult in his voice but delight, and his eyes are sparkling, sparking, and then he pulls you together and his mouth is the world exact, wet, tugging. He’s sucking on your tongue and his hips are pressed up against yours, so tight you can feel the cold of his belt buckle through your cotton sundress.
One of his thighs slips between your legs and, god, it’s thick, muscled. The front of his slacks are flush against the hollow of your hip and you feel the bite of a crooked zipper head and beside it the hard line of his cock.
‘Oh,’ you say, in a gasp, and push your hips forward. He kisses you with a kind of surging suddenness, and you tip your head back and let him suck on the skin of your neck and below the lobe of your ear.
‘Wish you could fuck me right here,’ you say, and he makes a choked noise into your neck. Your bodies have slotted hungrily into a kind of rhythm, pressgrindrock, and then he scuffles his foot and his thigh finds where the cusp of your pubic bone meets the hood of your clit and your whole body startles, jerks in his arms.
‘Oh,’ he says, danger-sweet, and rocks against you again, careful, hardly moving so much as just shifting the weight of his body. There’s a noise in the dampened quiet of the stairwell and it takes you a couple of seconds to know that it’s you, moaning, low and gritty, cause he’s got one hand down the back of your panties and two of his fingers are crooking up just inside you, thick and practiced.
‘Fuck,’ you say, once, clear, before all you can think is breathing, keeping quiet, a little, please, quiet, and then you’re coming, pulsing around his fingers, legs giving out, and he holds you up against the wall and breathes unsteady behind the shell of your ear while he comes.