Page 8 of Older Hotter Grumpier
“Does that feel good?” he says, low and gravelly.
“Yes,” I pant out.
“You’re such a brave girl. Anyone could walk in and see you being so filthy. My naughty secretary, touching yourself in my office.”
A sob escapes me. Being seen? Who knew it was such a scorching fantasy.
“Are you close? Your cheeks are flushed. So pretty. You’re doing so well,” he tells me.
I keen, unable to form words. I’m right on the edge.
“I can smell you from here.”
A pulse goes through my clit, and I don’t know if it’s his voice, or the electric embarrassment of this whole situation.
He raises his hand to his mouth, rubbing the dark stubble on his jaw, then goes shock still.
Yes. Oh. Oh no. Because simultaneously we both have the same realisation.
I touched his hand with the fingers that had been in my pussy.
Holding my gaze, my boss tilts his big square wrist and brings his knuckles to his nose before taking a deep breath in.
“Mmmm. Delicious.”
I let out a squeak of pure arousal. Of need. And my boss? He lowers his hand just enough so I can see him open his mouth and slowly lick the place where my fingers brushed.
That lick echoes through my body as strongly as if it had been my skin. Maybe more.
I explode. I think I cry out. I definitely shudder as I come so hard I see stars in burst after burst. They start from my pussy but reach right down to my toes. It’s a whole-body drug, this orgasm. It’s magic on a scale I’ve never felt.
He doesn’t take his greedy eyes from me as I arch and shake and lose all sense of time and place, even as the spasms slowly ebb away.
Oh. My. God. I just—
There’s a tap on the door.
“Mr Blackwood?” a tentative voice says, and then babbles. “There is a delivery for you, Mr Blackwood, but your secretary isn’t here, and I didn’t know what to do.”
“One moment please,” Mr Blackwood orders. He takes his time to stand, still not having taken his eyes off me, and adjusts his trousers over the obvious bulge at the front, with no shame whatsoever.
My brain unsticks and I scramble to get my clothes straight as he strolls to the door. Jumping to wobbly feet, I push down my dress and, blushing again, look, horrified, at my sticky fingers.
Caught with my hand in the honey pot. Literally.
The options fly through my head as Mr Blackwood waits. Wipe them on my dress, or my knickers. Stuff my hands in my pockets, or put them balled behind my back—I very nearly do that. Then I think of how my fingers brushed Mr Blackwood’s accidentally. And instead, I do what my eight-year-old self said was the best way to get rid of evidence.
Eat it.
Shoving my fingers into my mouth I suck the liquid off as fast as I can, the tart, salt and sweet hitting the back of my throat. Then I rub my fingers into my palms and clasp my hands together in front of me.
The very picture of innocence.
I hope.
Something flares in Mr Blackwood’s gaze.
“That was very well done,” he says, low and for my ears only. “Good girl.”
