21Sextury
Veronica Leal, Charlie Dean Pic(s)
The heavy oak desk, usually a bastion of order, became an island of delicious chaos under the press of her body. A soft sigh escaped her lips as his fingers, abandoning the cold plastic of a pen, traced a slow, deliberate path up the ide of her silk-clad thigh. The rustle of a forgotten spreadsheet was drowned out by the sharp intake of his breath near her ear, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her blouse. Every point of contact felt amplified, from the solid weight of his leg agat hers to the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the dry, dusty smell of ink and old wood. She arched her back slightly, feeling the hard edge of the desk press into her as his mouth found the sensitive hollow of her throat. A low murmur vibrated agat her skin, a promise that had nothing to do with the mundane tasks left unfinished on the computer screen. His hands slid upwards, pushing aside delicate material to cup the warm, heavy softness of her breast, his thumb circling a peak that tightened tantly to his touch. The world outside the office windows blurred into ignificance, the distant city lights becoming mere stars in a universe contained within these four walls. In that moment, the only thing that required her signature was the unspoken contract of mutual desire, sealed not with ink, but with a shared, shuddering gasp.
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