Page 25 of The CEO’s Assistant

"I know you're here." Wren's hand slid up under the open blouse, found the clasp of her bra at the back, and undid it with one hand—quick, practiced, certain—and Cordelia felt the fabric go loose and felt Wren's palm spread flat against her bare back. The last barrier between them came apart. "I've been watching you be here all week. Walking past without looking at me. Dropping off files at my desk like I was just anyone."

"You're not just anyone," Cordelia said in between kisses.

"I know." Wren's mouth was on her collarbone, on the ridge of it, on the soft dip below where the skin was thin. "I've known that since the first time."

The first time. The same dark office, the door closed, the kiss that had, at once, started everything and ended eight years of distance. It created a new kind of distance that was much, much worse. Cordelia remembered it in sensations, the pressure of Wren's mouth and the specific temperature of her skin, the way her hands had felt on Cordelia's waist like they already knew the shape of her body.

Wren's mouth moved lower. She pulled the bra away with her fingers, let it fall, and her mouth found Cordelia's breast in the dark. Cordelia's hand was in Wren's hair again and her hips were still moving against Wren's thigh. She could feel herself getting wet through her underwear, through the lining of her pants, the fabric catching and sliding. She found she did not care about the suit, did not care about the silk, did not care about anything except Wren's mouth on her nipple and Wren's hands on her ribs and the fact that she had come back for this.

She had come back.

Wren pulled her deeper into the office, away from the doorframe, and Cordelia felt the edge of her own desk behind her knees, and Wren pushed her down onto it, the motion inevitable. One hand on Cordelia's shoulder, a firm touch, and Cordelia's back met the desk. The cool surface pressed against her bare skin, but she was too warmed up for it to cause gooseflesh to spread. Wren was standing over her, nestled between her legs, and the window showing the cityscape was behind Wren's head like a field of scattered stars.

"You kept your distance," Wren said, and her hands were on Cordelia's belt buckle, on the clasp. "You looked right through me. You were so good at it I almost believed you didn’t care."

"I was good at it," Cordelia said, and her voice was not her voice exactly. It was lower and rougher, and it came from somewhere vulnerable that she had kept hidden from people. "I was good at it, but I was slowly dying inside."

Wren's hands stopped loosening the belt buckle. She looked down at Cordelia, still on her back on the desk, her blouse open and bra gone, and her chest rising and falling with desire. Cordelia watched her face and saw the moment Wren understood what she had said.

"Dying," Wren repeated.

"Every minute."

Wren undid the belt, more deftly this time, and pulled it free then dropped it. Her hands found the zipper of Cordelia's pants, and she tugged them down over Cordelia's hips with the same deliberate care she had used on the buttons. Cordelia lifted her hips slightly and felt the cool air of the office on her thighs, on the damp cotton fabric between her legs, and she was exposed in a way that had nothing to do with clothing or lack thereof.

Wren knelt, maintaining eye contact the whole time. Cordelia watched her kneel, the way she went down easy, one knee and then the other. And all of a sudden, Wren's hands were on her knees, pushing them apart, and her mouth was on the tender inside of Cordelia's thigh. Cordelia's hand found the edge of the desk and gripped it, her knuckles turning ash white.

"You don't have to⁠—"

"I want to." Wren looked up at her again from between her thighs. There was no hesitancy or carefulness in there. "I have wanted to do this every day this week. Every day. While you were not looking at me, while you were being good at keeping your distance and staying professional."

She yanked Cordelia's underwear aside. The cotton was soaked, and Wren's fingers slid through the wetness. Cordelia heard herself inhale sharply and then Wren's mouth was on her, hot and certain.

She didn’t tease, and her tongue was flat against Cordelia's clit. Cordelia's hips came off the desk, and her hand left the edge and found Wren's hair again and she held on. Wren clearly knew what she was doing. She knew it the way she knew everything: by taking the time to pay attention. Her tongue moved in slow circles and her fingers slid lower, two of them pressing into Cordelia. The glorious stretch and the pressure and the wet heat of Wren's mouth was so much and so exactly right that Cordelia's vision blurred.

"Fuck," she said. She never swore. She was the woman in the tailored suit with the poised look and flawless composure, but now, she was being reduced to someone who swore because a woman, Wren, had her fingers deep inside, curling up to hit the soft G-spot that made Cordelia go feral.

Wren made a sound against her, low and pleased, the sound of someone who had heard that word and liked it. Her fingers curled again as she pressed against it, and her tongue sped up to match Cordelia’s building orgasm. It wasn’t a slow build either. It had been building all week, since Monday when she had told Wren under no uncertain terms it couldn’t repeat again, since she felt Wren’s eyes on her back and knew in some deep recess of her body that she had lost touch with that she was lying to herself and Wren. It had been building since her walk over, the elevator ride up, the hellos they exchanged when she was finally across from Wren. And it was now reaching its crescendo with Wren’s fingers buried inside her and her soft mouth against her clit, sucking on it hard then softly. Her heart hammered a beat that Cordelia swore sounded like Wren’s name, and she broke.

Her body arched on the desk, and the orgasm went through her in long waves. Wren didn’t stop, didn’t pull back, just stayed with her through it, her mouth and her hands steady and present. When her orgasm left her body limp, Cordelia was breathing hard, her heart battering against the inside of her ribs, and her hand was in Wren's hair. Wren was still kneeling between her legs with her fingers still inside her, and nothing had changed except everything. Cordelia didn’t have the mental clarity to see just how much of her world had shifted yet. Wren pressed a kiss on the inside of Cordelia's thigh. Soft, almost gentle. Then she looked up.

"Come back here," Cordelia said, equally softly.

She pulled Wren up by the collar of her oxford shirt and pulled her into a kiss. She could taste herself on Wren's mouth and felt Wren's body against hers, the desk hard underneath her back. She did not care about any of it except the weight of Wren on top of her and the way Wren was shaking now, her steadiness finally giving way.

"You've been waiting," Cordelia said.

"Yes."

"For how long?"

Wren kissed her jaw, her throat, the scar at her temple. "Longer than this week."

Cordelia reached down and pulled Wren's shirt free from her pants, found the buttons, and undid them with unsteady hands, then pushed the shirt off Wren's shoulders. Wren's skin was warm and her shoulders were lean. Her bra underneath was simple and black, functional, and Cordelia sat up enough to unclasp it and closed her mouth on Wren's breast, feeling Wren's whole body react against her.

"Cordelia—"

She bit gently, then harder, and Wren's hips pressed forward against the desk. Wren's hand came down beside Cordelia's head to steady herself. She could feel it in the way Wren responded to her every touch. It went beyond just mere arousal and was more like recognition, her body's relief at being touched by the right person after the wrong amount of time. She slid her hand down Wren's stomach, over the waistband of her pants. Wren's breath caught and her hips tilted as Cordelia undid the button then the zipper and slipped her hand inside.