Work Text:
Maybe it’s the way she only wears clear gloss and peach blush and a feather curl of mascara, and each of her freckles looks like a miracle kissed into place.
Maybe it’s the honeybird blonde of her hair. Her nude hosiery with the delicate contrast backseam lining from heel to up under her pinstripe pencil skirt. Or the commanding way when she walks into the room, any room, every clock-tick halts and she’s the most important, intimidating thing there.
Maybe it’s how she mistakenly calls him Sammy every time she comes, dampy lashes, flushed with mild embarrassment for it. She doesn’t know why she keeps calling him that, sorry, Sam, I, sorry. Pulling her black satin panties back into place, smoothing down babyhairs, back to her Excel workbook.
It’s still the workday and today’s financial report is due after lunch. Good stuff, big things. She even smells expensive.
Whatever it is, it’s got Sam lovesick bad.
And it’s been that way ever since he walked through the office door with the embossed nameplate that read D. SMITH, DIRECTOR OF SALES & MARKETING and met his new boss.
~
He only messes up once, early on.
Sam’s got her up on her big, black, granite-top desk, keyboard shoved aside, letter trays teetering the edge, and Sam’s trembling moves from his heart out to his hands, stumbling over white-hot thoughts, fumbling with the fastenings on her garters, peeling her polka dot stockings down, gaping at the sight of her dick.
Her dick.
Sam hadn’t even—
“I—” he says, and she looks at him hard, green diamond, having put all this trust in some guy from down on geek floor, her milk-soft thighs still open around his hips and Sam’s dying, dying to touch her there the most, now, mouth pooled wet. So he does.
“Fuck,” he says, more to himself, “how are you perfect,” closes his eyes, wraps a warm palm where she’s already so heated, and leans forward to tuck his nose into her hair, “why didn’t you tell me, why didn’t you,” but he’s gasping just from cradling her cock and she leans all the way back and brings him down on top of her, no bullshit asks Sam to put himself inside her.
He’s never, ever been with a girl who wears Agent Provocateur.
The suck mark he leaves on her neck is by accident, a wicked welty thing full of canines and premature-possession. She has to powder it with makeup for a string of 9—5s. Sam Wesson wants the whole dead-eyed department to see.
Sam pockets a $330 pair of peephole panties with burgundy bows on them just because he knows now that they smell like cock. She sees him do it. She lets him.
~
It’s a great, great model.
Traction control, anti-lock brakes, and Car and Driver magazine says the little 110 horsepower thing gets 45 mpg on the highway. Economic efficiency for the parsimonious person, Ms. Smith tells him, kind of preeny.
But Sam’s six point five feet tall and pounding pussy in a hatchback can get a little snug. He still does it, though, less than a month after they’ve met, fifteen days after he jammed the paper shredder watching her walk by, how she click-clicked past him in her cherry-bottom shoes and didn’t glance at him at all until the moment she shut her door and then all Sam felt was flooding fire.
It’s been sixty-six hours since he put steel in his jaw, corrected the collar of his polo, sweaty, and walked into her office without knocking, talking about kismet and karma, an overlap of dreamt kisses, and please tell me you feel like this, too.
In the secret shadows of the underground employee lot, head jammed up against the Prius’ back passenger window, seatbelt buckle denting at his spine, Sam stares up at her moving above him in his lap, three buttons of her blouse undone, pale cream throat, and thinks about the way she’d softly said to him,
“I don’t believe in destiny,”
and how his chest could’ve just caved, right there on the fourth floor at his brand new job, and who harbors a crush this mortifyingly intense in just three 40 hour work weeks, he’d thought, that’s sad, that’s sick, and then, thoughtful bitten lip, plumped up pink with decision,
“I do believe in dealing with what’s right in front of us, though,” and she got up from her swivel seat, calmly cinched the blinds shut, and then slid tactfully to her knees and sucked his cock through the opening of his no-name khaki pants.
“We should keep doing this,” Sam says now, in that bursting, brink-of-orgasm way, grabbing at her chest through her boutique-bought bra, near her heartbeat.
It sounds like something plainly adjacent to shopping for a ring he can’t afford on a techie’s salary and registering for high dollar kitchen appliance gifts, being a we, an us, a them.
Sam comes messily inside of her, thick throbs of it, and thinks that he really might mean it. He wonders if love is supposed to feel this bloodcurdling, this red.
~
She’s very particular about her masks and creams and serums, has a whole section of lotions and potions on the marble countertop in her bathroom.
Fussy little glass bottles of linen-scented parfum, a jar of something called L’Occitane that she rushed over and reclaimed from him when he candidly wondered if they could use it for a concentrated lubrication. She’d gone round eyed and faint-white, in a horror, and Sam thought then, right then, that she was wonderful.
He fucks her on the platform bed in her room up in her skyscraper condo, makes her shake and shout and sob spit into the silk pillowcases that she prefers for healthy hair and skin.
~
Sheer rosebloom nail varnish unexpectedly undoes him.
It’s just a soft wash of femininity under a jelly shine, nothing florid or coarse with color. A subtle sort of girl the untouched shade of ballet slippers. But her hand looks perverted wrapped around the heft of his dick. He knows he’s choke-big.
He knows she likes that he’s choke-big.
Sam drips all over her fingers, runny in a way he should apologize for but can’t, cannot, and stares hazily down at the sweet spray of sundrops that live among her knuckles.
The first time she lets herself kiss him on the mouth is in the crampy supply closet next to the toner cartridges.
~
Their favorite place, though, is in Room 1444.
“God, you’re pretty,” Sam says, thumb holding her thong aside, rubbing right there, staring right there where he’s got himself all shoved up and shiny, and Sam blushes to think that he’s just complimented someone’s asshole.
She pants back at him, vision glazed, holding onto the sturdy shelving with the key-slot steel bars, letting him fuck her from the back on his fifteen minute break, knowing he can make her good lingerie all creamy in under five.
Up here, it’s quiet. It’s just them and a preserved junkyard of outdated monitors and faulty equipment, coils of cables, late model phones. They discovered it once, together, new relationship-horny, looking for a place where maybe Sam could fingerfuck her insides to softness and not have to worry about swift terminations.
It doesn’t matter anymore, how a month ago they were supervisor and barrel-bottom employee, the month before that — staggeringly just strangers. Sam’s never had the kind of sex that feels so immense and unknowable that it’s called something else completely.
In Room 1444, Sam doesn’t have to be mindful about nearly knocking her head into a Newton’s Cradle or sending her chrome-bottomed page-a-day calendar flying with every desperate drive of his hips, monstrously obsessed with her, with all of her.
He can play at gentleman, but he’ll never be an authentically gentle man. Not when his dick’s wet in something this dangerous or this beautiful.
Sam grabs hold of her between the legs, feels her breathing quake and pussy clench and doesn’t treat her like anything delicate or dollish when he rubs one out of her dreamgirl cock so raw that the splintered scream of Sammy has gotta be bullying into every cubicle and conference room they’ve got.
“Shit,” she says, crass, mouth smeared puffy and used, shoulders jolting up and down, fuck-fast, Sam still in her, going soft, but very in her, “I’m sorry, again, why do I keep—”
“It’s okay,” Sam tells her kindly, and finds that it is. It actually is. “I think — I think I like it?”
His cock flexes meanly, meaningfully, and some of him dribbles out to crudely splash at the backs of her knees. He blew, too.
Cheeks splotched with a stain, novelly shy, Sam hears himself confessing, “or, I guess I like it when you do it.”
She swallows thick in her throat, smile like something in a song someone sang to him as a child, and presses Sammy against his open lips, handwritten Valentine.