It’s not a deep kiss. It’s a soft, sweet press of mouths, a hello. But it snaps something inside me. The carefully constructed wall of control I built this morning—cleaned the table, organized the inventory—crumbles.
I need more.
I drop her wrist to grip her waist, hauling her against me. The wool of her sweater is rough against my hands.
I deepen the kiss, sweeping my tongue into her mouth. She tastes like mint toothpaste and the underlying sweetness that is just her.
She gasps, her hands clutching my biceps, but she melts into me.
“Knox,” she murmurs against my lips. “The kitchen...”
“We’re not open yet,” I say. “Nobody is coming in.”
I walk her backward, my grip on her waist iron-tight. I steer her away from the prep stations, toward the hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“My office.”
I kick the door open and maneuver her inside. I slam it shut with my heel and flip the deadbolt. The click is loud in the quiet room.
The office smells like old paper, toner cartridges, and the cedar polish I use on the furniture. I back her up to the heavy mahogany desk.
“I really did just come for my checkbook,” she says, but she’s giggling, her hands playing with the hair at the nape of my neck. “I have to rush to the bank before work.”
“You can spare a few minutes.” I reach down, gripping the back of her thighs, and lift her onto the desk. She squeaks, her weight settling on the polished wood.
I push her knees apart, stepping between them. The skirt rides up, exposing her thighs. They’re pale, soft, and I want to mark them with my hands, my mouth.
“Knox...”
“Shh.”
I drop to my knees. The floor is hard, unforgiving, but I don’t care. I lean in and press my mouth to the inside of her thigh, right above her knee.
She sucks in a sharp breath.
“I like this skirt,” I rumble against her skin. “But I like what’s under it better.”
I bite the soft flesh of her inner thigh, soothing it with a lick. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling, not pushing me away.
I reach up, hooking my fingers in the edge of her panties, and drag them down. She lifts her hips to help me, kicking the lace aside.
She’s wet. She must have been thinking about this on the drive over.
“Look at you,” I say, my voice rough.
I don’t wait for an answer. I lean in and lick a long, slow stripe up her center, from her entrance to her clit. She tastes like salt and honey, a flavor that goes straight to my head.
She whimpers, her head falling back. “Oh, god. Knox.”
I eat her out with single-minded focus. I use my thumbs to spread her open, exposing the tight, hidden bud of her nerves. I suck it into my mouth, flicking my tongue over the tip in a rapid rhythm.
Her thighs shake against my ears. Her breathing turns ragged. The giggling is gone, replaced by desperate and needy sounds.
I slide two fingers inside her, crooking them to find that spot. She arches off the desk, a cry tearing from her throat.
I pin her hips down with my free hand, holding her still while I fuck her with my fingers and my mouth.
