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“Oh god yes,” she cries.
Her heat intensifies and she tightens around my fingers, pulsing and squeezing as she begins to come.
“Fuck yeah,” one of the guys mumbles.
I don’t know which one. It doesn’t matter. My thoughts are filled with the vibrations of this woman beneath me, shaking and crying and grasping the heady luxury and power of sensual pleasure, just the way she deserves it.
She’s still shaking when she opens her eyes and looks at me. “More,” she whispers. “I want more.”
Well, damn.
I turn her so she’s bent over the side of the desk. I lift her skirt all the way to her hips, and then slide her panties down so they’re hanging on one ankle. Pushing her feet apart with my own, I open my trousers and in seconds, I’m poised at her opening.
So much for waiting for the perfect first time.
“You ready, baby?” I ask, leaning next to her ear.
Face down on the desk, she nods. “Yes. Please. Give it to me.”
I tease my hard-on up and down her wet slit. “Give you what, Livvy? What do you want me to give you?”
“Don’t be a jerk, Wes,” she whines.
“I wanna hear it, baby.”
She slaps her hand on the desk in frustration. “I want your cock, Wes,” she breathes. “I want you to fuck me.”
Goddamn, I love a dirty girl, especially one who’s right next door.
I push inside her just an inch and she gasps. “Like this, baby? Is this how you want my cock?”
She giggles. “Dammit, Wes, quit messing with me.”
Okay then. I drive my cock all the way inside her, so hard her feet lift off the floor, and she has to hold onto the desk to keep from flying off.
“Oh God,” she screams, followed by some of the sexiest moans I’ve ever heard.
I drive in and out of her pussy, every inch of my body pulsing with need, and when I erupt inside her, my senses shut down. All I can feel is her milking every drop of cum out of me.
29
WESTON
The restaurant businesswaits for no one.
I won’t lie, I was up half the night replaying Livvy’s sweet orgasm on my office desk, to the point where I jerked myself sore and still couldn’t get to sleep.
So, in spite of the fact that I’m hoping for a slow day, the moment I arrive at work, the restaurant is already chaos-central. Nothing life-threatening, but the staff would have me think otherwise.
One of the kitchen crew, a new girl with purple hair and a tattoo around her neck, bursts into my office where I’m still straightening things up from playtime the night before.
“Wes, there’s been a supplier mixup,” she says breathlessly.
“Okay. What’s up?”
“Well,” she begins, wringing her hands and on the edge of tears, “instead of olive oil, they sent ustruffle oil.”
She says it like they sent us a bag of horse shit or something, that’s how disturbed she is. I don’t bother reminding her that we actually use truffle oil in our heirloom tomato dish, among other things. The woman is clearly partial to olive oil.
