I could just imagine the men in her being office quietly thrilled as they eyed her all day, hitting each other with knowing looks every time she reached her arms up to stretch.
HOLLAND: Don’t worry. I’ll wear my hair in front of my boobs during happy hour
Happy hour?
Jesus fuck. I ground my teeth at the idea of Holland getting drunk with a bunch of horny coworkers who’d spent their entire day ogling her tits.
ME: There’s no way in hell you’re going out drinking like that Holland.
HOLLAND: Really
HOLLAND: And who’s going to stop me? You?
HOLLAND: While you’re all the way in Boston?
I stilled, realizing where this was headed.
Whether or not she’d sought out with the particular mission, it was most definitely what she was doing now: tempting me into wanting to go home—specifically to take that weekend she was so insistent I needed.
I dragged a hand across the lower half of my face, my head feeling briefly like it was going to explode, because annoyed as I was, I couldn’t help the smirk curving my lips. I couldn’t help but shake my head in bitter but thoroughly impressed disbelief as I texted her back.
ME: You work for one of the largest lingerie companies in the world. Surely you can buy a bra for yourself at work.
HOLLAND: True. I should probably buy new panties while I’m at it.
I paused, telling myself to finish my point instead of walk willingly into her trap.
But didn’t work.
ME: Are yours wet right now?
My mistake.
I shouldn’t have asked that question considering how much effort it was already taking me to will down my hard-on. But I couldn’t help myself and considering that always eager pussy of hers, I already knew the answer. At least I thought I did.
HOLLAND: They would be if I were wearing any.
&nbs
p; Fuck.
I was about to ask for a picture when it came in on its own. An under-the-desk shot with her camera positioned between her open legs, the gleam of her wetness more than evident despite the shoddy lighting.
Fucking fuck. She was at work with no bra or panties on, and her pussy looked like it was aching to be fucked over her desk. The mere thought had me picturing myself bending her over, spanking her ass till she screamed, and the fantasy barreled on even as I returned the nod and smile of a colleague coming my way.
“Thorn. Incredible job on the Crosby deal,” Dave said, oblivious to my clenching jaw as I reluctantly clicked my screen off and turned my outward focus to him.
“Appreciate it, Dave.”
“Bet you can’t wait for the new collective bargaining agreement,” he laughed, clapping my shoulder as we stepped into the elevator.
“Just counting down the days,” I replied, smiling through my every disruptively filthy thought about Holland, and shooting the shit on auto-pilot till Dave and I reached the suites, where I was greeted with a brand new slew of suits who needed to shake my hand, give their congratulations and pick my brain about the contract extension.
And like I did every day of my life, I went with it.
But the difference today was that under the easy exterior, the handshakes, and all the obligatory chuckles and hollow small talk, every cell in my body was fucking rioting.
Straining to be in New York.