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| [Slow Burn] |
“Don’t move.” Olivia squeezes her hips, presses closer, whispering against the elegant curl of her ear.
It was of little consequence how she came to be bent over her desk or when the tell-tale jangle of buckles had announced her conqueror.
Cheek pressed against the desk calendar, Alex focuses hard on her framed credentials—half-expecting them to spontaneously combust like her body’s threatening to—as Olivia works her from behind. Languid strokes leave her mouth dry and thighs evidenced with her yen.
Her nose brushes Wednesday, her lips kiss Thursday, and her fingers struggle to hold on to the weekend.
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