Page 65 of Work: Strictly Professional

It’s like the dream. It’s like I’m flying. Only this time, I can take off, and I know how to steer. I soar. Rocketing through time and space. It’s heaven. It’s wonderful. It’s an outpouring of every good emotion I’ve ever felt.

It’s good. It’s amazing.

I’m just not sure I know how to land.

29

Wyn

So that’s an orgasmthen. I see. Looks like I’ve been doing it wrong all my life because, holy hell, it’s never felt like that before. Nothing has ever come close. I’m glued to the desk, limp and unable to move. Not sure I want to either.

Derek pulls out of me carefully. I wince and try to clench my ring to stop his load from leaking out of me, but it doesn’t help. I’m fucked out and open. I feel a warm trickle run down my taint to my balls as he spills out of me.

Behind me, Derek is breathing roughly. Harsh, uneven gasps that aren’t slowing and don’t sound like a simple case of physical exertion.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

Oh Jesus. Did I break him?

“Um, Derek, is everything okay?”

The heavy breathing continues, air rasping through teeth until finally, he says, “I need a minute.”

“Okay,” I squeak. “It’s okay. Take your time. I can go.”

My heart clenches and twists sharply, tell-tale signs that I’m about to start unraveling.

While I’m perfectly fine being experimented on, I’m in no way okay with sending a guy into a tailspin because he put his dick in me. I can’t stand that. I really don’t think I can handle it at all.

I straighten without daring to turn back and look around Derek’s office to identify the most direct route from where I am to the heap my pants and boxer briefs lie in on the floor near the door. Before I start moving, my feet leave the ground again, only this time, they actually leave the ground. It’s not just a feeling. It’s happening. I’m being lifted, hoisted, picked up by a strong arm around my waist, and dragged backward. Derek sits heavily on his desk chair, sending it skidding back a few feet and pulling me down with him.

I find myself, ass still naked and leaking, sitting firmly on Derek’s lap.

“A-are you freaking out? Are you freaking out right now? Because if you are”—my voice lilts up at least an octave—“it’s fine. It’s completely fine. It happens sometimes, and it’s no big deal.”

“I’m not freaking out.” He sounds like he’s developed a head cold or at least a very sore throat.

“Oooh,” I trill. “It kind of sounds like you might be…”

“I’m not freaking out.” His lips are on the back of my neck, soft, warm skin on my skin. I’m about to argue when he adds, “I’m sad.”

“Sad?” I wail. “Sad? But that’s worse. Sad is way worse than freaking out.” By some miracle, I manage to stop talking and take a breath. I highly doubt that me freaking out will bring anything helpful to the situation, so I keep quiet and sit still as Derek clutches me to him as tightly as he would if I were a soft toy or maybe a favorite blanket. “Why are you sad?” I ask whenI’m almost positive I’m ready to hear the answer and do a half-decent job of pretending to be fine with it.

His lips are still on the back of my neck, a light pressure that tickles as they start moving again.

“That was me,” he whispers. “I’m forty-eight years old, and for the first time with someone else, I was myself. That was me being me. Really me.”

I slump back against him, confused and still hesitant to look back at him. “So why are you sad?”

He blows a puff of air into the hair on the back of my neck. “I could have been doing that for the past thirty years, Wyn. I should have been doing that. I’ve wasted years, most of my life. I’ve wasted it. It could have been like this the whole time.”

“Well,” I correct, lungs filling with relief followed quickly by indignation, “not to burst your bubble, honey, but no, it wouldn’t have been like that for the past thirty years. It was only like that because it was with me. You may not realize it, but in addition to being a master of organization, a gifted teacher, and an exceptionally professional individual, I have a rare talent for bottoming. I’m known for it. Not famous exactly, but close.” I manage to stop talking there. I’m very thankful for that, but then I hear myself add, “In fact, when you start fucking other men, you’ll notice the difference. It won’t be the same. You won’t enjoy it nearly as much. It’s best you start preparing yourself now to avoid disappointment.”

What?

It’s true.

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