Her voice cuts through the noise of the company party like a scalpel: “So you really think you’re getting the budget increase?”
I turn around, the glass in my hand trembling slightly. She stands at the bar, a glass of white wine between her fingers, the smile on her lips a pure challenge. Lena. Head of Market Research. My fiercest rival for two years. Her black dress hugs her curves like a second skin, and the gleam in her eyes promises more than mere rivalry.
“I have the numbers, Lena. What do you have?” I step closer, feeling the colleagues’ gazes on my back—a game we always play, in public. But today is different. Maybe it’s the way she brings the glass to her lips, or the faint tremor in her voice as she replies.
She laughs, a hoarse sound that echoes deep inside me. “Numbers aren’t everything, Max. Sometimes it’s about who has the better arguments.” She raises her glass, a toast to me. I clink, the sound of glass a signal. The colleagues turn away, the conversation fades. We’re alone in the crowd.
“And what would your arguments be?” My gaze wanders down her neck, to her cleavage where her pulse visibly throbs. She notices, her nostrils flaring slightly, a sign of arousal.
“Maybe I’ll show you later,” she says, turning and weaving through the crowd. Her walk is springy, provocative—every movement a silent promise. I follow without hesitation, leaving my drink on the counter.
Outside on the terrace, the air is cool and clear, spring having only timidly arrived. She leans against the balustrade, her silhouette against the brightly lit window. “No one will miss us here,” she says, and it’s not a question, but a statement.
“What do you want, Lena?” My voice is rough, my pulse hammering against my temples. She turns, her eyes searching mine, and I drown in her gaze.
“I want to know if you can be as hard as your negotiations,” she whispers. Then she’s on me, her hand on my chest, the pressure of her fingertips burning through the fabric of my shirt. I feel the warmth of her palm, the slight trembling running through her body.
I kiss her without thinking. Her mouth tastes of wine and desire, her tongue immediately finding mine. A duel, a fight, every move a maneuver. My hands slide into her neck, pulling her closer until I feel the curve of her breasts against my chest. She moans softly, bites my lower lip—a sharp pain that makes me even harder. “Not so fast,” she breathes, but her body presses against me, her pelvis circling against my thigh.
I let my hands wander lower, over the fabric of her dress, which feels silky. Her skin beneath is warm, and I feel her nipples pebbling under the thin material. My fingers find the small bump, stroking it gently, and she flinches, a soft gasp escaping her. “Lena,” I murmur against her mouth, “you’re so fucking beautiful.”
She returns the kiss more intensely, her hands running through my hair, pulling me closer. I feel her tongue tip playing around my lips before penetrating deeper into my mouth. A game of conquest, where we wrest control from each other. Her knuckles press against the back of my head while I grab her hips and push her against the railing. The cold stone under her skin forms a sharp contrast to the heat between us.
She breaks away, breathing heavily. “Not here,” she says, grabbing my hand and pulling me along. We run through the garden, past bushes and lamps casting ghostly shadows. She leads me to a small outbuilding—the old archive, hardly used by anyone. The key is in the lock, she opens the door, and we tumble inside as if we’ve been waiting for this.
Inside, it smells of paper and dust, of stale air. A single lamp casts weak light, bathing the shelves full of files in a soft orange glow. A desk, a chair, a filing cabinet—the backdrop for our game. She closes the door, turns the key. The soft click is like a starting shot shooting through my veins.
“So you’re my argument,” I say, and she grins, a smile full of cunning and lust.
“Maybe. Or you’re mine.” She sits on the desk, opening her legs as if issuing an invitation. I step between them, my hands on her thighs, the skin warm and soft under the thin fabric of the dress. I push the hem up, slowly, millimeter by millimeter, savoring every revelation. She watches me, her breathing quickening, her breasts rising and falling under the deep neckline.
“Show me what you’ve got, Max.” Her voice is a rasp that echoes in my groin. I lean forward, kiss her neck, the spot behind her ear where her pulse pounds wildly—a drumming I capture with my lips. She smells of perfume and that special scent that belongs only to her, a mix of musk and something sweet. My fingers find her panties, damp silk that can barely hide her heat. I stroke her through the fabric, and she throws her head back, a soft moan escaping her lips.
I pull the panties aside, dip a finger into her wet slit. She’s ready, more than ready. I slide into her, one finger, then two, and she opens to me, her inner muscles gripping me tightly. Her breath catches as I find the spot that makes her cry out. “Yes, right there,” she pants, her hands gripping the edge of the desk.
I bend lower, kiss the inside of her thighs, the skin tender and salty. My tongue finds her clit, circles it slowly while my fingers remain inside her. She jerks violently, thrusting her pelvis against my face. “Oh God, Max,” she moans, her fingers in my hair, pressing me harder against her. I suck on the sensitive pearl, release it, circle it with my tongue tip until she trembles.
“Come for me, Lena,” I murmur between her legs, and that’s enough. She comes with a shrill cry, her body arching, her fluids wetting my fingers. I keep licking her through her orgasm until she sinks exhausted onto the desk.
Then I stand up, opening my pants with trembling fingers. She watches every move, her tongue tip running over her lips, a wet gleam. I step closer, my cock brushing her thighs—a foretaste. She wraps her hand around it, a firm grip that makes me groan.
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