Chapter 50 FUCKING MY BOSS PART 1
Kinks: office play, boss/employee, office sex, foreplay
The quarterly earnings report droned on, a hum of figures and projections that faded into the sterile, air-conditioned air of the conference room. For Elara, the only reality was the electric heat of Julian’s hand high on her thigh.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
Her own thought was a frantic whisper in her mind, a useless alarm bell drowned out by the roaring in her veins. His fingers, so capable and sure when he’d been presenting their division’s growth strategy minutes before, were now tracing idle, devastating circles on the sheer silk of her stocking, just inches from the hem of her conservative pencil skirt.
She kept her gaze locked on the CFO at the head of the polished mahogany table, her expression a carefully constructed mask of professional interest. But her entire world had shrunk to the space beneath that table. She could feel the weight of his palm, the slight roughness of his skin against the smooth nylon. Every slow, deliberate stroke was a promise and a threat.
She dared a glance to her right. Julian’s profile was a study in cool composure. He nodded thoughtfully at something the CFO said, his free hand casually tapping a pen against his notepad. He was the picture of a focused executive. A total lie. The hidden part of him, the part only she knew was there, was currently dipping a single finger beneath the lace trim of her stocking, his knuckle brushing against the unbearably sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
A shudder wracked her frame, and she clenched her teeth, pressing her knees together in a futile attempt to stop him, to stop herself. The movement only trapped his hand, pressing his palm more firmly against her. A soft, choked sound escaped her lips, which she quickly disguised as a cough into her fist.
His lips quirked in the barest hint of a smile, a flicker of triumph in his steel-grey eyes when he briefly glanced her way. He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. The scandal they were already hiding—the stolen kisses in his office, the frantic, clothed grinding in the elevator, the secret weekend at a hotel two towns over where no one would recognize the CEO and his Head of Marketing—made this insanity not just possible, but inevitable. The risk was the entire point. It was the fuel.
His finger slid higher, a slow, relentless invasion, and found the damp heat already soaking through her delicate lace panties. Her breath hitched. Her pen clattered onto her legal pad. Across the table, briefly, she thought she saw their intern glance up, and a fresh wave of panic, hot and sharp, lanced through her. It immediately melted into something darker, more primal, under the deliberate press of Julian’s middle finger against her clothed center.
Oh, god.
She was exposed, on display, and yet completely, utterly hidden. The contradiction was maddening. Arousing. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild drumbeat she was sure the entire board could hear. She could feel the slickness between her legs, a desperate, physical plea that betrayed her silent protests. She was wet for him. Here. Now.
Julian’s finger began to move, a subtle, torturous rhythm through the lace. A slow circle, then a firm, downward press that made her see stars. She bit down on her lower lip, hard, the pain a sharp counterpoint to the pleasure coiling deep in her belly. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk, seeking more pressure, and his hand stilled, punishing her for the small loss of control.
He leaned over slightly, as if to look at a document in front of her, his cologne—sandalwood and crisp citrus—filling her senses. His voice was a low, intimate murmur meant only for her. “Keep still, Elara. Or would you like everyone to see how much you’re enjoying the presentation?”
The words were a command and a caress. Her face flushed with heat. She stared straight ahead, her body trembling with the effort of absolute stillness while he played her beneath the table. He shifted his hand, and she felt the lace of her panties being pulled aside. The cool air of the room hit her exposed flesh for a single, shocking second before the pad of his finger found her, bare and slick and aching.
This time, she couldn’t suppress the sharp, silent gasp. Her eyes fluttered shut for a dangerous moment. The sensation was blinding. The rough texture of his fingerprint against her hypersensitive clit, the smooth, firm pressure, the secret, wet sound that only they could hear. He traced her slowly, learning her, as the CEO talked about fiduciary responsibilities.
He was circling her clit, a slow, lazy tease that had her clawing at the edge of her seat. Every nerve ending was on fire, screaming for release. The pleasure was a tight, hot coil winding deeper and deeper inside her. She was losing herself, drowning in the duality of the public facade and the utterly private violation.
“Julian…” His name was a ragged breath, a prayer and a curse.
“Look at me,” he whispered, his own voice thick with a desire he couldn’t entirely mask.
She forced her eyes open and met his gaze. The hunger in them was feral, possessive. It mirrored the desperate need clawing at her. He increased the pressure, his touch becoming more insistent, his rhythm faster. His thumb pressed down on her clit while a second finger slid down, through her wetness, and pressed against her entrance.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact. The droning voices, the table, the future of the company—it all dissolved into static. There was only his hand, his eyes holding hers captive, and the terrifying, exquisite precipice she was rushing toward. Her thighs trembled, her stomach clenched. She was so close, balancing on a knife’s edge of pleasure and panic.
He pushed one finger inside her, just to the first knuckle, a shallow, teasing penetration that made her choke back a moan. The stretch was exquisite, the proof of her own readiness undeniable. He withdrew, only to slick his fingers in her arousal and return his focus to her clit, rubbing tight, precise circles that stripped away every last pretense of resistance.
Her orgasm built like a thunderhead, unavoidable and terrifying in its intensity. She was panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She couldn’t look away from him. He watched her, his jaw tight, his own composure finally beginning to fracture under the strain of watching her come undone by his hand in the middle of a board meeting.
The tension snapped. A silent, seismic wave of pleasure crashed over her, so powerful her vision whited out at the edges. Her body seized, every muscle locking tight as the climax ripped through her, relentless and shocking in its force. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, the metallic taste of blood a tiny anchor in the roaring void of her release. Through it all, Julian’s fingers never stopped their gentle, persistent work, drawing out every last shuddering pulse until she was limp and boneless in her chair, spent and trembling.
The meeting was adjourning. Chairs scraped back. People began to stand, gathering tablets and coffee mugs. Julian slowly, so slowly, withdrew his hand from under her skirt. He brought it to his lips, never breaking eye contact with her, and cleanly licked her wetness from his fingers.
“My office,” he murmured, his voice a low, dark vow as he stood up. “Five minutes. Don’t be late.”
The five minutes felt like an eternity. Elara’s legs were still unsteady, a pleasant, liquid weakness lingering in her muscles from the seismic release under the table. She gathered her legal pad and pen with trembling hands, her skin hypersensitive, every brush of her silk blouse against her nipples a tiny electric shock. The conference room emptied around her, colleagues chatting idly about lunch plans and quarterly projections, completely oblivious to the secret that had just unfolded in their midst.
She could still taste the copper of blood on her cheek, a stark reminder of the climax she’d barely silenced. Her core throbbed in a slow, echoing rhythm, a hungry emptiness already beginning to build again, fed by the memory of his fingers and the dark promise in his voice.
My office. Don’t be late.