The first drag of his mouth over my panties steals a sound from me I’ve never heard myself make. He does it again like he’s collecting data points, and then he hooks the edge of lace with his teeth.
“Is that allowed?” I manage.
“I’m invoking executive discretion,” he says against me, and tugs them aside as my heart slams into my throat.
The first lick is—God. Heat and pressure and that slow, sure confidence that says he’s not guessing. He maps me with his tongue, methodical, attentive, and when he finds the spot, I arch so hard my heels scrape paper on the side of his desk. He makes a pleased sound that vibrates through me, and I grip the edge of the desk like it’s the only solid thing left in the universe.
“Quiet,” I gasp, which is hysterical because I’m the one making noise now. I bite my lip, failing spectacularly.
He smiles against me. I feel it. Then he gets serious, flattening his tongue and sliding up, again and again, unhurried, building something tight and bright under my skin. He’s maddening about it, deliberate enough to make me whimper, generous enough to make me curse him under my breath.
“Noah,” I warn, which comes out as more plea than threat.
He answers by changing angle, sealing his mouth around me and sucking softly, then harder, then perfect. My head tips back, a low, helpless sound escaping as the world narrows to the wet pull of his mouth and the precise flick of his tongue, learning me in real-time, adjusting when my legs tense or my breath stutters into a messy staccato.
My thighs start to shake. His hands slide down, firm and steady, pinning me gently to the desk. He keeps me open, keeps me right there, and I swear he’s timing my breath.
“Please,” I whisper, not sure what I’m begging for. Him to slow down. Him to never stop.
He doesn’t say anything. He just hums like I’m a difficult but rewarding problem set, and the sound goes straight up my spine. I reach for his hair on instinct and catch myself, hovering—then give in, threading my fingers into the dark strands and holding, not pushing. He makes a low noise that feels like approval.
Heat winds tight, precise, so bright I can’t see around it. He changes the pressure the tiniest bit and I break. It’s not tidy. It’s not quiet. I gasp his name like a prayer I don’t believe in and arch so hard I hear a stapler skitter off the desk and thunk against the carpet. He doesn’t stop when I come—he rides it with me, gentle and coaxing, easing me down with slow strokes until the tremors let me go.
I’m floating, boneless, my eyes are blurry with tears I will absolutely deny later. He presses one last kiss to me, absurdly tender, then nudges my underwear back into place with an efficiency that should not be as hot as it is.
“Timer,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and smug, and when I glance at the corner of his screen, I see the timer blinking down with a ridiculous two minutes and twelve seconds left.
Of course he smirks.
“Margin of error,” I breathe out, trying to remember how my knees work. My thighs are jelly, my lungs are operating on a three-step delay, and I’m fairly certain my soul just stood up and applauded.
He rises slowly and carefully, respectful of my space. He doesn’t crowd, doesn’t touch either, until I wobble, and his hands skim the outside of my thighs—light, anchoring, no weight, no pressure. The gentleness makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod too hard, then make a noise I will deny even under oath. “Fine. That was fine.”
His mouth tilts. “Fine?”
“Acceptable.” I let out a shaky laugh. “Okay, shut up. I’m recalibrating.”
His chuckle is heavy.
I slide my underwear back where it belongs, tug my skirt down, and blink at my reflection in the black of his monitor. I look wrecked. A little dazed, a lot flushed. And very much alive.
Then my gaze moves to him to find him looking happy but tortured, all at the same time. I glance at his lap, and the tortured part begins to make sense. I’ve been so focused on myself that I didn’t even take into consideration that it might be rather uncomfortable for him.
“Do you want me to, you know.” I point below his waist. “To help you too?”
Please, say yes.
The muscle in his jaw jumps, and I brace myself for a cocky yes. But Noah King seems to surprise me every chance he gets. He goes very still.
“No.” His voice is low enough to vibrate through the wood under my palms. A forceful shake of his head is meant to fortify his words. “This was for you.”
I feel my cheeks—on my face, for now—spreading into a wide smile. “That’s not exactly equitable, Mr. Contract.”
“File a complaint,” he murmurs as his mouth edges into a smile that’s half devastated but also half satisfied. “I’ll schedule a hearing. After hours.”
