I’m stubbornly still for a moment, making him wait, and then I slip my feet out of the pumps and stand on the carpet. My eyes are drawn to his fingers as he slowly unwraps the stockings. For all me being a morally corrupt, poor excuse for a German he certainly gives me lots of little presents and admiring looks. And now this.
But my thoughts are cut short when he grasps me by the hips and settles me on his desk. He looks up at me, that small, satisfied smile playing around his lips. He’s holding me lightly, his fingers a gentle pressure, but suddenly I don’t think I could move away if I tried. His hands move down to my thighs, over my skirt, and I begin to breathe a little faster, my lips parting. He watches every emotion that flickers over my face, studying me, hungry for my reactions.
Sliding his fingers beneath my skirt, he deftly unclips the awkward little fastenings on my garter belt, first the ones at the front, and then gliding his hands round to the ones at the back. Despite Lenore and Frau Fischer’s intel that Volker doesn’t date he seems to know his way around a woman’s undergarments.
He strips the nylon stockings off me in one long, fluid movement, and then he turns his attention to my legs. His hands are warm as they caress the soft skin behind my knees, making my pulse beat hard, and then they run down my calves to my ankles. He places my bare feet on his lap, drinking in the sight. Lenore was right. Volker likes legs. He likes my legs, and it’s heady, the way he looks at me. No one’s ever looked at me the way he does.
Wordlessly, he reaches for the packet and slips the stockings up my legs, careful not to snag the delicate fabric. The little clips are fastened, and it’s done. Except he doesn’t pull my skirt back down. He smooths his fingers higher, across the skin of my inner thighs. Gentle, unhurried. I can feel my breath coming faster and I realize the stockings, like the letter, were a preamble to something more. We’re in his office. How far is he going to take this? How far am I going let him take this? His fingers touch the fabric of my underwear and my eyes snag on the silver epaulettes on his jacket.
“I hate your uniform.” It comes out in a soft whisper, and for a moment I don’t even realize I’ve spoken aloud.
Volker’s hands still. Then he lets me go and begins unbuttoning his jacket. I watch the path of his fingers, the gray-green wool parting to reveal a white shirt underneath, a black tie. He stands up, towering over me, and shrugs out of the jacket. Leaning over me he braces his hands either side of my legs, his mouth very close to mine.
“It comes off. I’m just a man underneath.”
“No you’re not, you’re—” But he kisses me, stoppering the words with his mouth. The scent of him envelops me, warm and inviting, and his body is hard beneath my fingers. I’m touching him, pulling him closer, opening my mouth beneath his so that his tongue invades me. I capture his hips between my knees. But he pushes me away from him and I’m confused, resisting, until I realize he’s laying me down on the desk. I prop myself on my elbows, aware my skirt is falling back, aware he’s standing between my thighs, and I don’t care because he takes his forefinger and runs it down the length of my sex over my underwear. That one, soft touch cascades through my body, pushing away everything else. Again. Please. I look up at him with need in my eyes.
He circles his finger back and then concentrates the motion where it feels best, on the swollen nub at the apex of my thighs. I make a w
himpering noise and fall back onto his desk, my eyes closing. As he rubs that spot I give in shamelessly to the sensations, not caring what I must look like, that I shouldn’t want this. Not caring what he is or who I am. Just wanting him, as I have since he planted that first soft, tender kiss on my neck. Since he showed me that he could make me enjoy forgetting about everything but him.
He hooks my thighs over his shoulders and I realize he’s sat down and pulled his chair closer. Easing my underwear to one side he licks me, slowly and carefully, his tongue soft and slippery and very warm. The intensity makes my head rear up in surprise. Is this what people do? Does he like that? He’s got his face right there. And then his tongue dips down, pushing into me, and I cry out, startled. It’s too weird. It’s too strange. Please don’t stop.
Volker pulls away a little and mutters, “Hush, these walls are thin.”
He goes back to working my hard little nub with the tip of his tongue and I wrap both my arms over my face, pressing them against my mouth to muffle my cries. Everything seems to be slowly tightening down there, my hips curving upwards with every whimpering breath. He keeps up that slow, circling movement with his tongue and I feel my toes curl, my hands reaching for something to grasp. They find his wrists and I hold on for dear life. A bright, golden sensation is building inside me and I don’t know what it is, until I do. I’m going to—he’s going to make me—
My back arches and my head flies back, but he keeps a firm grip on my legs, still licking, making the sensation go on and on until I can’t bear it any longer. I sit up and take his head in my hands, clenching my thighs around his shoulders, breathing hard.
He kisses my thigh, blotting his mouth. I feel very hazy and heavy, needing to hold onto him to steady myself. When he eases my legs off his shoulders, they grip his ribs instead. My hands touch his shoulders, rub across the short hair at the nape of his neck, slide across his jaw.
“Gut?” he asks, an ironic look in his eyes, because good clearly doesn’t come into it when I’ve got my legs clenched around him and I’m rubbing my thumb over his lower lip wondering how the hell he just did that.
Good? I’m done for. If he can make me feel like that then moral considerations, borders and uniforms don’t come into it. One kiss from him, one look, and all my good intentions amount to nothing.
“Verdammt,” I pant. Damn it. Damn me.
He laughs and pulls me onto his lap so I’m straddling him, and I feel the hard length of him beneath my damp underwear. He’s aroused and I didn’t even touch him?
“You said you preferred it if I hate you,” I mutter, as he kisses my throat and his fingers caress my breasts, sending residual sparks through my body.
“You do hate me, don’t you? Or was it dislike? I can’t remember.” He kisses my collarbone and adjusts me on his lap so his erection is pressed even tighter against me. I feel a repellant urge to rub against it.
“Why do you bring me presents, and smile at me and…do that, if you want me to hate you?”
There’s mock-innocence in his voice as he murmurs, “Do what, kiss you?”
“No. Um, that.” That thing you did with your tongue. You know what I mean. You’re just trying to make me say it.
“Make you feel good?”
I nod.
He leans back in his chair, smiling broadly at me. “Oh, Evony, you can still find it in your heart to hate me even if I make you come, can’t you? Or are you falling in love with me already?”
Schwein. Red-faced, I try to get off his lap but he holds me fast. “Let me go. Why do you have to be so…be such a…”
“Such a what? Such a bastard? Such a prick? Come on, let’s hear a few dirty words from that prim mouth of yours.”