Printer whirs in the open-space. Mouse clicks echo sharply. Coffee stench mixes with my floral perfume, thick in the air. I’m Joanne, 32, ambitious desk warrior craving that forbidden office buzz. Across the desks, eyes lock. Him. Nicolas, the masseur hired for today’s wellness bullshit. Dark wavy hair, deep black eyes, tanned skin, smirking like he owns the place. Thirties, like me. No ring. I hold the stare. He doesn’t blink. Heat builds between reports and screens.
Day drags. Tension simmers with every glance. Tight white blouse hugs my full tits. Flared floral skirt teases above knees, showing long legs. Thin strip of skin at my waist. Blonde curls frame my face, pink gloss plumps lips. Blue eyes hungry. End of shift. I grab my bag. Head to my usual elevator, second from lobby. Less walk home.
The Ambiance
Doors hiss shut. Click like a lock. Few people inside. Not rush hour. Perfect view. He’s here too. Elevator hums down. Jerks hard. Lights die. Emergency red glow flickers. Stuck between floors. I sway, eyes half-shut from fatigue. Slam into his chest. Powerful arms catch me.
“Thanks,” I giggle nervous. “Floor without you.”
“No prob. Pretty woman like you? Can’t bruise.” Voice hot, mocking edge. Instant wet.
Look up. Inches away. His mouth tempts mine. Muscled torso presses. I pull back. Steal looks. Broad shoulders. Promising crotch. Heat climbs, vents dead. Murmurs rise. He slumps against back door, ass-sit comfy. Beckons.
“Try it.”
“Skirt hikes. Panty peek show.”
“So?”
“Not flashing my ass.”
“No thong?”
Silence. Mystery hangs. “Other way?”
“My lap.”
The Explosion
“Fall off. Crush legs.”
“I hold. Long. Any position.”
Sit. Back to chest. Firm pecs. Arms snake waist.
“Balance.”
“No groping.”
“Hands stay.” Legs stretch. Breath hot on neck. Sniffs deep.
“Smelling me?”
“Yeah. You crave it.”
Truth stings. Nipples peak. Pussy twitches. Stiffen for control. He yanks back. Ass grinds crotch.
“Nicolas.”
Head turns. Lips brush. “Joanne.”
Heart pounds. Cologne floods. Body melts. Want his skin everywhere.