The vibration of his moan on her mouth unhinged her, his hands under her sweater, fingers memorizing her ribs, her waist, and her hands made quick work of making him nude, the inequity of their states of dress an added thrill. In seconds she could right herself, skirt down, sweater pulled straight and neat, panty status hidden by her clothing.
A naked firefighter, though, would be hard to hide if the mail clerk or the receptionist wandered in.
She chuckled at the thought and he pulled back, questions in his eyes. “The door,” she whispered and he cocked one eyebrow.
“You want me,” he hissed, biting just hard enough on her earlobe to make her hips rise off the desk, “to lock it?”
“I want you to fuck me,” she growled, reaching for his tense rod.
“That’s a given, my dear,” he whispered. “But first things first.” As he slid off her she actually whimpered, reluctantly letting go of his hot flesh, the sound so ludicrous she began to pant, sitting up as he walked away. Ah, but the view was worth the added seconds of wait. Dylan glided across the room like a man from two or three millennia past, his body so full and real she reveled in the pleasure of watching him move, the need to have him in her still urgent yet paused, her appreciation for the perfection of his form like an artist’s eye for beauty.
Yet he wasn’t perfect. Scattered scars spoke to a childhood and adolescence of outdoor exploration, and she gasped when he turned and she saw an enormous, jagged line running down his back. “What’s that?” she asked as he quietly locked the door. “On your back.” The scar was an angry, foot-long keloid welt that seemed so incongruously positioned compared to the rest of him. It stretched a good three or four inches wide, like something had taken a bite out of him. No hair grew on it and the skin seemed alien, a pale white that stood out from the rest of his olive tone, as if it were abandoned by the rest of his body.
“A support beam fell on me during a fire,” he answered, leaning over her in seconds, fingers lacing through hers as he eased her back down from her now-seated position. “We can talk about that later. Right now I have a different fire to attend to.” One hand released her palm and slid between her legs, the touch maddening as his fingers reached her curls, then one slid to find her burning clitoris, the touch making her rasp his name.
“Oh, Dylan.” His hardness was there in seconds, her wet, ready pussy practically drawing him in. Her cheeks were flushed and she had a moment of unreality as she imaged the scene from above, Laura and naked Dylan going at it on her desk, next to the state of Wisconsin’s quarterly reports, the thrum of her desktop computer the only soundtrack to cover their groans and gasps.
She was never more grateful to have been promoted out of the cubicle farm than right here. Right now. Right—
He entered her, slick and right and full and his hands roamed her breasts, mouth imprisoning her, hair splaying out across the desk calendar, covering half of July, her body tensed and relaxed at once, full of Dylan Dylan Dylan. What had been panting, earlier, returned, her body completely fixated on his touch, his taste, his fingers on her clit and in her hair, his lips devouring her, biceps tight as her hands explored his body, the dusting of dark hair that seemed to cover so much of him a braille of consummation.
Of reunion .
His thrusts were gentle but thorough, his ass gorgeous to touch, her palms making love to the twin cheeks, with dimples she could feel. Both knew they needed to be quick; Laura sensed it in his careful attention to her clit, how he knew exactly which skin to touch and when, bringing her higher, to a new level of unfolding and opening, waves of orgasm lining up at the ready as he called them forth.
A thin sheen of sweat covered his chest as he pulled back, eyes intent and staring at her, a brief flicker of self-consciousness making her smile shyly as he drove himself deeper into her.
She almost broke the moment with a nervous word but stopped herself. And then—oh, then—her back arched and his fingers and self were lifting, lifting her as all heat and fire and warmth and wetness zoomed between her legs, into her chest, her heart expanding and blossoming, his voice in her ear whispering, “Yes, come, come Laura, I’m—”
Biting her hand was her only recourse as she twitched and jerked, the sheer force of her orgasm so strong that her body tried to escape it, couldn’t run away, had to stay and let the pleasure envelop her, nerve endings straining to grow enough to accept all Dylan gave her now, his legs working for balance and purpose and then—
“Laura, oh, Laura,” he moaned, but she was too caught up in the layered power of her own body’s response to reply. Her walls clenched around him, abs tightening in places so deep within her she didn’t know she had, Dylan’s own climax feeding off hers as her excitement increased, knowing he wanted her, that his body was in hers, that she did this to him.