Saturday, 2:16 a.m.

He yanks down her thong in the middle of the living room.

Some turn off their brains during sex, but she vows to her eyes wide open to the level of now, the level of want that’s going on during this mild February night. And they’re not even naked. Yet.

It started late Friday night at a crowded pub in his neighbourhood where he had just gone to see a play. She rarely drank alone, but she’d had a long week at a hellish workplace.

1:15 a.m.

He was helping a buddy get over a breakup to the tune of tequila shots. Across the crowded bar, he waved at her. The little smile was reminiscent of the one he’d give her at staff meetings when their tyrant of a boss would yell at her.

Big city, small office. She’d heard things… About how good he was. But he was so quiet, it was hard to tell if the rumours were true.

Still, she’d been intrigued enough to wear her skirts a little shorter. Nothing obscene. The occasional strategic bend over. She’d been too shy to take it any further, and who even knew if he noticed anyway? Just a fun little game, a workplace distraction – like the flirty texts he’d send when the day got especially stressful, or on the weekends when he was drunk.

Then, two days ago, he caught her in the back room pulling at her fishnets that wouldn’t stay up. She’d heard a gasp when the door opened behind her, but if the little smile was any indication, he’d already seen the tops of her thighs, possible her ass too. She got an email – Subject: nice tights. Nothing else.

He was her friend, her office ally, and for all she knew, that’s all he’d ever want to be.

But tonight, by the third beer, she had grown bold and started texting.

I had a dream and you were in it.

She saw him from across the room and watched as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He grinned as he thumbed at the screen.

Nightmare?

No. It was good. Vivid.

Vivid, huh? Elaborate.

You gonna report me for harassment?

This was it. She’d said it, crossed that line. He really could report her for this. She squinched her eyes shut until her phone buzzed again.

Depends on how good the dream was.

“Oh God,” she thought. She took another swig of her beer.

We were at your apartment. In your bed.

Well, well. Do go on.

It gets graphic.

Go on.

You were fucking me from behind and licking my neck. And well…

I’ve been thinking about fucking you for months. My place?

Her head jerked up. She craned her neck to scan the bar. He nodded in her direction. She reminded herself to breathe and reclaim her boldness all over again. Just in case he was kidding.

You’re not going to pass out and get me all torqued up for nothing?

What? No! You. Me. Naked. Let’s go.

2:06 a.m.

“Why don’t you wear this at work?” he breathes after flattening her against the wall. His tongue had been stroking the inside of her mouth before she’d even unbuttoned her coat. He reaches up under her skirt, and immediately retracts his hand. “Sorry! I’m so sorry.”

Exceedingly polite and almost professional. Even when wasted, the coworker’s code is harder to undo than her bra.

“I do wear this at work,” she says looking down at the pale pink lace with thigh-highs underneath. Ballerina innocent and schoolgirl slutty all at once. “I just wear a sweater over the, you know…”

“I can’t stop staring at your cleavage.” He holds out his hand. “I just want to get us naked.”

2:10 a.m.

“I want you.” His lips touch her ear. She could fuck his voice, gravelly and guttural as only an ex-smoker’s can be.

They’ve made it to the living room, silent but for sound that their breath and their mouths make in dark. Her back to him, she lifts her dress up. He leans over and flicks his tongue across the lower right corner of her back.

“I just kissed your tattoo,” he explains in a low rumble. Articulate despite being drunk.

Until now, she had never realized that a woman could purr.

2:12 a.m.

“Remember when I showed it to you in the stairwell?” she asks when he’s done licking the little purple star.

“Mm.” He kisses her deeply in affirmation.

She remembers every detail. It was the hottest day of last summer. And for a fleeting moment, the two of them were alone, suspended between levels on the stairwell.

Someone could have come in from above or below at any second. He had pulled down his sock to show her the cross on his ankle, which apparently was done in a suburban basement when he was fifteen and bored. She turned her back to him, and lifted her cardigan just enough. She had shown her tat to friends, and even other coworkers before. But this time was different. It should have been innocuous, a little ink show between friends.

“Wow,” was all he had said.

Minutes later, she returned more than a little bothered to her cubicle, and crossed her legs.

Now he slips his arms around her bare waist, ducks his head so she has no choice but to look him right in the eye.

“I could have fucked you right then. But I figured…” He tips his head back as his words trail off. “Coworkers, right?”

“Coworkers,” she echoes. Coworkers who will have to see each other on Monday.

“Don’t think about it,” he commands and lunges at her mouth.

2:17 a.m.

She can’t get enough of his tongue. The way he palms the back of her head to turn it to the right. His beard is just the right length – not stubble scratchy, but soft against her face and neck.

He tugs off his shirt in that endearingly masculine grab-from-the-back kind of way. She pulls her dress right off.

“Oh God.” He looks at her breasts, resplendent in a black bra. Fitting his fingers around them, he lifts his head. They’re the same height. His smile is positively joyous.

“I like these.”

2:20 a.m.

Naked. Clinging to each other. Mouths locked – she likes how she doesn’t have to stand on her tiptoes here – he palms her ass before sliding a finger inside her cunt.

She’s startled by how wet she is, that all of this is really happening. He’s thumbing her clit. Harder than she’s used to, but she likes it. It’s the first of many discoveries that she will make over the course of the next several hours.

Tongues still wrestling, she groans into his mouth. He grins.

“Let’s go to my room.”

2:30 a.m.

His sheets are so soft, so welcoming to her skin. And there he is, warm and solid beneath her.

His lips and tongue play with her tits. “I want to make you come.”

Those six words, that simple admission, are almost enough to do the trick. Why don’t more of them just say that?

She writhes on top of him and his palm lightly taps her ass. They lie at the foot of his bed, kissing, and rubbing, and oh, she could just do this all night.

But she was craving his cock inside her.

2:40 a.m.

Finally. Finally, after she is over-stimulated to the point of vibrating right off the bed, she pleads, “Get a condom on so we can do this!”

He growls his assent. Soon he is pulsing, then pounding inside her. She’s facing the headboard, ass poking up as he drives deep into her from behind.

“I can’t get too excited yet.” She hears it through the panting, that barely perceptible panic.

Poor men, she thinks. They only get one.

His balls slap her clit. Still she relishes the tease - slowly swivelling, pushing him away and pulling him right back.

She loves that part. Tiptoeing backwards to the edge, taking the man with her and pushing him back over and over until that moment of release when he goes harder and collapses on top of her, exuding pure gratitude.

“Are you thinking about baseball?” she taunts.

He smacks her ass in reply, and she moans loud, like the bad girl she didn’t know she was. She grips the iron bars of the bed frame in front of her. He does it again, striking the lushest part of her, and she can feel him growing more rigid with each stroke.

She wants his cock in her mouth five minutes ago. But at the same time, she may physically die if he leaves her pussy too soon.

Slap. Again on her left cheek. Oh...

“Oh, and while we’re here,” he grunts. Slap. “Please stop showing your shit off at work.” Slap.

She turns around and cranes her neck to look at him. Judging by the ironic smile on his face, he doesn’t really mean what he’s saying.

“My dick can’t handle walking in on you in fishnets again.” He goes deeper, fucks her harder. “I had to jerk off in the men’s room.”

She can’t help it - she laughs out loud.

As he licks the base of her neck, slowly dragging his tongue along the nape, she wonders if he remembers the text from earlier that night. But all she can do is gasp and grasp the bars a little more firmly.

This will leave a mark. Or many.

2:45 a.m.

She’d never particularly liked blow jobs. Ex was too big, so she often felt like she was choking. Plus, Ex tended to insult her skills and then try to pass it off as a joke, forcing her to laugh it off rather than face the accusations of being a conservative prude.

But with this one, she has already come twice and his dick hasn’t even been inside her. Lying on top of him, she scoots back and down. Can I?

He’s just right, she thinks as she moves his cock in and out of her mouth, running her tongue down the length of his shaft and up over the head. She hopes she’s doing this right - rubbing her hands up and down to replace her mouth when she needs to come up for air, caressing his balls with her tits.

This is how it’s supposed be, she realizes. Intense - her face is between his legs, after all - yet playful. She feels she is in control, yet magnanimous. A benevolent dictator.

He exhales as she sucks and maneuvers. Feeling his frustration is so sweet. She can tell that he’s smiling. His fingers find her hair and tug at the roots. Though her mouth is occupied, she manages to release an oh.

2:52 a.m.

He’s on top and she can’t stop watching as he moves in and out. Missionary’s underrated, she thinks. The trick is to not just lie there, but give right back. Shocks the hell of them more often than not. Resist almost, then come up to meet him.

“Deeper,” she commands. “Kiss my neck.” He complies.

At their matching height, his pelvis moves against her clit as he easily strokes her neck with his tongue. She grips his ass and loses it all over again.

She closes her eyes, suddenly self-conscious of how much she is coming. But when she opens them again, she sees him. Still wearing his glasses. He’s hotter with them – Rivers Cuomo meets Clark Kent. Blue eyes magnified, he studies her intently as they move together.

“Are you watching me?” she whispers between thrusts. He nods, propping his head up on his elbow, his other hand running down the length of her.

3:17 a.m.

She’s going to let him.

She never thought she’d do this with anyone else. Not that it was some major love thing with the Ex, but anal is just so… dark. Invasive. Miles more intimate than a cock in a pussy.

He’s fucking her from behind again, murmuring, “I can’t get enough of your ass.”

She turns her head. “Do you want to…?” The words stick in her throat, so ends her sentence with a gesture, pushing her butt towards him. She widens her legs as he withdraws, closes her eyes, and waits. “Go slow though,” she pleads softly.

And there it is, the familiar pinch, the long hard slide. She inhales sharply. It’s been a while.

He hesitates. “Yes?”

She nods, willing herself back to the now.

There is only him. There is only now. This familiar, welcome pain was soothed by his hands on her back, and his quick yet steady breathing.

“Tell me when to stop and I will,” he reminds her, forever careful. He presses into her. She pushes back.

“God, your ass is so fuckable.” His basso profundo goes down an octave, if that’s even possible.

She arches her back more, presenting herself to him. For now, her ass is his. She has a vision of them doing this at the office. Maybe on the stairwell, or bent over the conference room table - skirt flipped up, biting down on her lip to stifle her moans.

She blushes at the thought, and flexes her asshole, squeezing around his cock.

“I want to come in your ass,” he says. That’s not new to her either, but its so gratifying to hear it from a different man. He’s losing control, and she can tell. She looks over her shoulder and smiles.

His eyes go wide and it happens.

3:53 a.m.

She’s the little spoon, naked and sweaty. He tucks his top leg around hers.

“Okay, I’m taking these off now.” He reaches over her to put his glasses on the nightstand, and trails his hand across her tits. “Don’t pass out yet, hm?”

His hand moves down her belly.

“Who the fuck are you?” was all she could manage before his fingers find her clit for the umpteenth time, probing and rubbing until she cries out, and finally glides into a perfect sleep.

8:21 a.m.

She wakes up to his hand down there. Again.

As she comes, she slides her leg along his tattooed calf, and shifts back so her ass massages his cock.

“You trying to give me an erection?” he murmurs.

She twists around, and sighs into his mouth before reaching down to return the favour.

“I like your hand on my cock,” he says.

“You asked me last night if you snore,” she whispers playfully, picking up speed as he moans in appreciation. Her lips touch his ear. “You totally do.”

10:31 a.m.

They’re in the middle of the kitchen when he leans over to kiss her goodbye. Of course, their tongues manage to find each other again, not wanting to let go.

“You trying to make me stay?” she asks into his mouth.

“You trying to stay?” he retorts into hers.

“I’m not not trying,” she sasses, loving how they can banter mid-makeout.

His hands grope fiercely, clamouring down her back until he finds the hem of her dress. She moans as they travel upward, fingers sliding past her thigh-highs and cupping the curves of her ass.

He backs away, barefoot in his khaki shorts, and gestures towards the bedroom. She can’t unbutton her trench coat fast enough.

“Keep your clothes on!” he yells playfully.

“I have to take off my coat!” she laughs, leaving it in the middle of the floor.

Fuck the coworker’s code. She just wants to make him come.

She slides across the linoleum and wooden floors back to the bedroom. He yanks down her pink thong again just like he did in the living just hours ago.

“Keep them on,” he grunts as she assumes the position – on all fours, face down, ass up on the supple mattress. There’s a quick crinkle of a condom wrapper, and then he’s entered her again. Just the right amount of pressure and thrust.

Her head lolls back. She’s so sore from last night. And she can’t believe how good his cock still feels inside her – a welcome invasion in and out.

She thinks of how they look - him with his shirt on, hands braced on her ass. She hikes her dress up a little higher. An appreciative groans comes from behind her. Then he pulls her hair.

“This okay?” he asks quietly. She grunts her assent.

He tugs at the back of her head, not so hard that she need worry about her neck, but enough to assert his presence.

The sheer dominance of that simple act… Maybe she’s more of a sub than she’d previously thought. Something to mull over on the train ride home.

“Did you like when I smacked your ass last night?” he rumbles in her hear.

“Fuck yes,” she says. That’s all he needed to hear.

Slap. On the fleshiest part of her right cheek.

Oh, God, he does it right. Ex would comply but was never all that into it. Maybe it was the Catholic thing, or maybe it was just because she and Ex had met so young. Either way, she’s grown up now, and oh - that’s her left cheek.

She yelps, then giggles at the sounds they’re making.

“Who knew you liked a little pain?” he muses. Slap.

Oh. And while she’s enjoying this immensely, she suddenly becomes aware of how sore she is. She thought this would all be about getting him there, because how could she possibly come again?

If the thrusting is any indication, he seems to be getting into the groove. But shit, there’s no way she’s got another one in her.

He tugs her hair at the roots. Her eyes grow big, his thrusts going deeper. She widens her legs, her hands digging into the rumpled sheets, and rolls her ass up again. He sharply inhales in approval of the view.

Slap.

He pulls again and she growls, shocked by the noise erupting from deep in her throat. Faster. In and out of her. He’s as hard as a goddamn cannon, one hand on the side of her ass, the other grasping her hair.

Wait, something’s building in her pussy. And she’s so wet from all the thrusting and pulling and growling, mixed in with his deep chuckle and satisfied grunts. In a few seconds, he’ll respond to her pleasure, and thrust hard once, twice, three times as he exhales and collapses on top of her, his own body completely worn out.

But for now it hurts so fucking good, and she finds herself gasping, chanting his name over and over as their encounter explodes to an end.

Part TWO: The Project

Lauren Emily lives (and loves) in Chicago, and is the author of the novel SATELLITE. Check her out at laurenemilywrites.com.

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