It didn't matter it was her office. She didn't care it was grey and threatening another thunderstorm outside. She had locked the door and closed the blinds. Her calendar was booked, her phone 'Do Not Disturb' and computer off. This was her space, her time, and she owned it fully. The navy skirt she wore was a little short, perhaps. Her ivory blouse a little too low cut. Maybe her skin-toned sheer bra would have been better on a night out than an afternoon in front of emails and on conference calls, but nothing anyone would really comment on. No. And anyway. These things didn't matter. What mattered was her lover had arrived. His eyes glowed with adoration for her. He stood slightly shy, toward the centre of her room, looking unsure if he really was welcome, was worthy of her presence.
She burned and she throbbed. Echoes of the sting and fire assaulted her.
It was five weeks after the last UTI had cleared up. Four days since her last period finished. Three hours since she saw him for the first time this week. And a minute since they kissed. Her pants were already a confused mess of honey and need and fear and want. She was full of fire. Her very core pulsed with hot desire. She wanted him to take her, but could not. She wanted to fill herself with him, but must not. The anxiety of another infection, another forty-eight hours of rushing - sometimes too slowly - to the loo fought her strong desire to fuck him, or be fucked by him. Her frequent fantasies assaulted her. To push him to the floor and straddle him where he fell, riding him without mercy. Or to have him bang her on the edge of her desk, as she gripped the tabletop, skirt turned upside down as he hammered home his want into her waiting lust. Or just turn around here, push out her arse and brace herself against the wall, urging him to take her hard and fast, without thought of her satisfaction. She could not have him inside her. But she wanted him so badly. She'd dressed this morning intent on breaking this mental barrier. She realised this was not happening.
Then. He stepped forward and dropped to his knees. His lips sowed teasing touches up her barely stockinged thighs, causing her to spread her legs a little wider. She leaned back against the door, and angled herself toward him, permission granting. The kisses grew faster, more urgent, as they reached the tops of the too-long hold-ups she wore. Not for the first time today she cursed the lack of petite hosiery, which meant only an inch of this delicate tickle of his beard on her skin. As breath passed through lace, reaching the nub of her proud and straining clit, she took a sharp breath in. They had spoken of the impracticality of a woman getting head while standing; she realised they were wrong. This was needed. This had to be ok.
