The silence between them in the office was a thick, tangible thing. For three days, it had persisted. Jen would issue a curt instruction about a spreadsheet, her eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder. Art would respond with a monosyllable, the memory of her trembling confession—‘Before I do something we’ll both regret’—echoing in the space between every word.
He was going out of his mind. The professional chill was worse than any outright rejection. It felt like a denial of the raw, undeniable truth he had laid bare on her desk.
Thursday afternoon found him in the break room, listlessly stirring a mug of tea he didn’t want. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. Then the door clicked open.
Jen walked in. She didn’t look at him, moving with that same efficient grace to the kettle. Her navy blazer was tailored to perfection, hugging the curve of her hips. He watched her pour hot water into her own mug, the steam clouding the air for a moment. The tension was a live wire, stretched taut.
She turned, leaning back against the counter, and finally, finally, her gaze landed on him. It wasn’t the cool, managerial look from the past few days. This was the look from the club. The look from her office when her mask had slipped. It was dark, hungry, and full of intent.
“We need tae talk,” she said, her voice low. The Scottish lilt was soft, intimate, meant only for his ears in the small, silent room.
Art’s heart kicked against his ribs. “We are talking.”
Her eyes darted toward the door, then back to him. “No’ here. This isnae the place.” She took a deliberate sip from her mug, her eyes never leaving his over the rim. “There’s a place. A hotel. The North Star.”
He almost dropped his own mug. The directness was a physical blow.
She set her cup down with a quiet, definitive click. “Seven o’clock. I’ll text ye the details.” She pushed off from the counter and walked toward the door. As she passed him, so close he could smell her citrus-and-vanilla perfume, her hand brushed against his. It was not an accident. It was a spark. A promise.
She paused at the threshold, glancing back, her expression unreadable. “Dinnae be late.”
And then she was gone, leaving him alone with the thundering of his own pulse.
*
The text came at 6:02 PM. Just an address and a room number. Nothing more. He stood outside the hotel room door at 6:58 PM, his palm slick with sweat. He wiped it on his jeans, took a breath that did nothing to steady him, and knocked.
The door opened almost instantly, as if she’d been standing right there waiting.
She’d changed. The blazer was gone. She wore a simple, knee-length black dress, stockings and heels but it was softer, less structured than her officewear. The neckline was lower. Her hair was down, that shimmering blonde-brunette bob framing her face. She looked both older and younger all at once.
She didn’t smile. She just stepped back, a silent invitation.
He walked in. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. The space was generic but clean, dominated by a large king-sized bed with a dark velvet cover.
She turned to face him, leaning back against the door, effectively blocking his exit. Her arms were crossed over her chest, pushing her breasts together. He could see the rapid rise and fall of them. She was just as nervous as he was.
“Well?” she said, her voice a husky challenge.
He took a step toward her. “I don’t want to talk, Jen.”
“Whit dae ye want, then?” Her eyes were daring him, gleaming in the soft lamplight.
“You know what I want.”
Another step. He was close enough to touch her now. The air crackled between them. The scent of her was intoxicating, that familiar office perfume now layered with something darker, muskier. Arousal.
She uncrossed her arms, letting them fall to her sides. “Show me,” she whispered.
It was all the permission he needed. He closed the final distance, his hands coming up to cup her face. Her skin was impossibly soft. He tilted her head up and crushed his mouth to hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a release. Three days of pent-up tension, of confused desire, of professional frustration, exploded between them. Her lips were soft and pliant, opening for him immediately. Her tongue met his, not with hesitation, but with a desperate, matching hunger. She tasted of mint and wine.
A low, guttural moan vibrated from her throat into his mouth. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to fist in the material of his shirt, pulling him closer, crushing her body against his. He could feel the soft, heavy weight of her breasts against his chest, the firm press of her stomach and hips.
He broke the kiss, both of them gasping for air. He trailed his lips down her jaw, to the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat. He licked the salt from her skin, nipped gently at her collarbone. She whimpered, her head falling back against the door with a soft thud.
“God, Art…”
His hands slid down from her face, over her shoulders, down her arms. He found the hem of her dress and slid his hands beneath it. Her thighs were warm, solid. He heard her breath catch as his fingers skimmed higher, over the lace tops of her stockings, to the bare, incredibly soft skin of her upper thighs.
He moved his hands around to her arse, squeezing the full, round curves through the silky material of her underwear. She was every bit as lush as he’d imagined. He groaned into her neck, pulling her hips firmly against his, letting her feel the hard, insistent length of him straining against his jeans.
“Jesus,” she breathed, her own hands sliding down his back to grip his backside, pulling him tighter, grinding herself against him. The friction was exquisite, maddening. “I felt this… in the club… I couldnae stop thinking about it…”
“You started this,” he murmured against her skin, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her knickers. “You put your hand on me. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
“Aye,” she admitted, her voice ragged with need. “I did. I wanted tae feel ye. I wanted tae see if ye were as… substantial… as ye looked.” She rocked against him again, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that made him see stars. “Ye are.”
He pushed her knickers down, and she kicked them away, the scrap of black lace landing somewhere near the bed. He slid one hand between her legs, and she gasped, her thighs instinctively parting for him.
She was soaked. Drenched. The hot, slick evidence of her desire coated his fingers instantly. He found her clit, a hard, eager pearl nestled in her slick folds, and circled it with his thumb.
Her knees buckled. A sharp, cho.ked cry escaped her lips. “Oh, fuck…” Her hands scrabbled at his shoulders for purchase. “Right there… don’t stop…”
He didn’t. He pressed harder, faster, mesmerized by the way her body responded to him. Her hips began to move in time with his fingers, a desperate, rocking rhythm. Her breath came in short, sharp pants against his neck. He could feel her inner muscles beginning to flutter around his probing fingers.
He drove her higher, watching her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her lips parted, her expression one of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. This powerful, controlled woman was completely unravelling in his hands.
“I’m gonnae…” she gasped, her Scottish accent thick and slurred with pleasure. “Art, I’m…”
Her entire body went rigid. A raw, guttural cry was torn from her th.roat as the orgasm ripped through her. He felt her clench rhythmically around his fingers, her inner muscles milking him as she shuddered against the door, her body held up only by his frame and the solid wood behind her.
She collapsed against him, boneless, her brea.thing ragged. He held her tightly, his own body aching with a need that was now fever-pitch. He was so hard it was a physical pain.
After a long moment, she pushed back from his chest, her eyes hazy and satisfied, but with a new, deeper hunger in them. She looked at his jeans, at the obvious, prominent bulge there.
She slowly sank to her knees before him.
Her hands went to his belt, her fingers deft and sure as she unbuckled it, unbuttoned his jeans, and pulled down the zip. The sound was obscenely loud. She looked up at him, her gaze holding his as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and boxers and tugged them down to his thighs in one smooth motion.
His cock sprang free, thick and fully erect, the tip already glistening. Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine surprise and awe in their depths.
“Christ Almighty,” she breathed, her accent wrapping around the words like a caress. Her hand wrapped around his shaft, her touch firm and knowing. She stroked him once, from root to tip, a slow, assessing glide that made his vision blur. “Look at ye. All that… for me?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She leaned forward, her hot breath ghosting over the sensitive head, and her pink tongue darted out, tracing a slow, torturous circle around the crown.
He groaned, his head falling back, his hands tangling in her hair.
She took him into her mouth.
The heat was breathtaking. Wet, silken heat enveloped him, and her tongue swirled around him as she began to move her head, taking him deeper with each pass. She was skilled. Her mouth created a perfect, tight seal, her tongue working miracles against the most sensitive part of his shaft. One of her hands cupped his balls, rolling them gently, while the other continued to stroke the base of his cock in rhythm with her mouth.
He was lost. The sight of her, on her knees, her blonde-brunette bob shifting with her movements, her lips stretched around him, was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. Her eyes were open, watching him, gauging his reactions. He could feel the vibration of her muted moans around his cock.
Her pace increased, becoming more urgent, more desperate. She was taking him all the way now, her nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. The wet, sucking sounds filled the quiet room. He was hurtling toward the edge, his muscles coiling tight.
“Jen… I’m close…” he warned, his voice a stran.gled rasp.
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she moaned again, the sound a deep vibration that pushed him over. She looked up at him, her eyes locking with his, and he came, hard, his release pulsing down her throat. She took it all, swallowing around him, her hand milking him through the last, shuddering waves of his climax.
When he was spent, she pulled back slowly, licking her lips with a final, delicate swipe. She stayed on her knees for a moment, looking up at him, a smug, utterly debauched smile playing on her glistening lips.
She got to her feet, her movements fluid. She placed her hands on his chest, pushing him backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed and he sat down heavily.
She climbed onto the bed, straddling his lap, her damp heat pressing against his softening cock through her dress. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear, her voice a husky, triumphant whisper.
“Now,” she purred, her Scottish brogue dripping with sensual promise |
