Call it whatever you wanted – fluffy, zaftig, fat, big and beautiful, plus-sized, curvy, big girl – this was her, and she wasn't changing. Could Dylan (and Mike! Don't forget Mike!) really want her? The fat girl?
His eyes changed, softening with a dark intensity, his lips parting slightly, his body moving closer. Unmistakable body language. Yeah. He really was into her.
Right now she wanted him in her.
Mike?
Choice A: tell Dylan that she was seeing someone else and ask him to give her a call so they could get together sometime later.
Choice B: fulfill yet another fantasy and have Dylan take her right here, right now, on her desk and behind a cheap lock on her office door, biting her hand to keep the sounds of ecstasy quiet enough to avoid drawing sidelong glances and nudges among the gossipers.
“Choice A,” she muttered. Be a good girl. Do the right thing. Don't be that woman.
“Hmmm?” he asked, the sound hoarse and airy, like he was struggling for control. Just like her. His eyes – oh, those eyes, so pure and focused and wanting her. His words were a balm that healed so many wounds, softened myriad scars, made hope spring eternal in her heaving bosoms which, right now, strained against her all-too-silky bra fabric and made her tense and frenzied, her clit hot for Dylan.
That hand on her arm slid up to her shoulder and she reached out, too, the fat girl with the firefighter/model, the swaggering man of muscle and bravado who swept her off her feet and gave her a taste of fun and confidence. Now his palm cupped her cheek, slid to loosen her hair, the thick waves pouring down her back and shoulders as he immersed both hands in the strands and brought his lips to hers.
Choice B, after all, it seemed. Don't be that woman.
Might as well tell herself not to breathe. The press of his soft lips on hers made her inhale so deeply her breasts compressed against the silk of her bra, the sensation of puckered nipples and taut rib cage band so constricting she felt faint for a second, the room spinning as his tongue found hers, his hands sliding down her back, then to her waist. With a sudden push inward and up he lifted her off from the ground and onto the desk, the force of his strength unnerving yet making her grin. He could lift her?
He could lift her. With catlike reflexes he slid her jacket off her body and snaked her skirt up, over her thighs, one hand kneading the flesh of her hip like a hungry man grabbing for food.
“Oh, how I've missed you,” he whispered in her ear, his breath hot then cold as the spaces between words stood out in stark relief, the air filling the void of his sweet confession.
“I'm so sorry,” she answered, her voice thick with apology.
“No.” He pulled back and kissed her forehead, then her nose, and stared at her. “I am sorry. Sorry that it took this much determination to reach you. Sorry that so many men before me hurt you enough to make your walls necessary.”
Mike. Don't think about Mike!
Gulp. “You're different, though – ”
“You couldn't know that. I had to show you. Let me show you more, Laura.” The brush of her hair against her neck, the rasp of his stubble against her cheek as he kissed her, the scent of him, a smoky musk with a hint of citrus – she was his. As he gently leaned her back on the desk, his muscled body over hers, she availed herself of his skin, palms sliding under his tucked-in shirt, the glorious heat of Dylan finally tangible, touchable, tasteable.
Taste him. As he hovered over her she reached up and found the softest spot on his neck, the skin fragile and tender, begging for her tongue. As the tip slid over the nape of his neck she felt him swallow, his Adam's apple moving slightly, air rushing through his windpipe in a gasp. He was salty and human, the little buds on her tongue feeling the hair follicles, half a day's growth peeking out. She breathed in his essence and then her legs parted, widening to accommodate his hips as a flash of his groin pressed against hers, his hard rod pushing against his pants.
She knew exactly how he felt right now. Reaching for his waist, she unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned the row of buttons on his fly (vintage Levi's? How Dylan) and slid his pants over those thick, hard hips, her palms cupping the curves of honed man as sinew and tendons, tight from working out and just plain old work, gave her a relief map of his body to touch and explore at her leisure.
Except right now, there was nothing leisurely about her touch. Molecules in motion increased the frequency of movement until her every pore buzzed, all expanses of skin at the ready, the brush of Dylan against her so exquisite she nearly screamed. His mouth teased and played with her lips and tongue as her hands took him in, his boxer briefs more than she wanted between them, yet just enough to keep him enmeshed and unleashed.
The vibration of his moan on her mouth unhinged her, his hands under her sweater, fingers memorizing her ribs, her waist, and her hands made quick work of making him nude, the inequity of their states of dress an added thrill. In seconds she could right herself, skirt down, sweater pulled straight and neat, panty status hidden by her clothing.
A naked firefighter, though, would be hard to hide if the mail clerk or the receptionist wandered in.
She chuckled at the thought and he pulled back, questions in his eyes. “The door,” she whispered and he cocked one eyebrow.
“You want me,” he hissed, biting just hard enough on her earlobe to make her hips rise off the desk, “to lock it?”
“I want you to fuck me,” she growled, reaching for his tense rod.
“That's a given, my dear,” he whispered. “But first things first.” As he slid off her she actually whimpered, reluctantly letting go of his hot flesh, the sound so ludicrous she began to pant, sitting up as he walked away. Ah, but the view was worth the added seconds of wait. Dylan glided across the room like a man from two or three millennia past, his body so full and real she reveled in the pleasure of watching him move, the need to have him in her still urgent yet paused, her appreciation for the perfection of his form like an artist's eye for beauty.
Yet he wasn't perfect. Scattered scars spoke to a childhood and adolescence of outdoor exploration, and she gasped when he turned and she saw an enormous, jagged line running down his back. “What's that?” she asked as he quietly locked the door. “On your back.” The scar was an angry, foot-long keloid welt that seemed so incongruously positioned compared to the rest of him. It stretched a good three or four inches wide, like something had taken a bite out of him. No hair grew on it and the skin seemed alien, a pale white that stood out from the rest of his olive tone, as if it were abandoned by the rest of his body.
“A support beam fell on me during a fire,” he answered, leaning over her in seconds, fingers lacing through hers as he eased her back down from her now-seated position. “We can talk about that later. Right now I have a different fire to attend to.” One hand released her palm and slid between her legs, the touch maddening as his fingers reached her curls, then one slid to find her burning clitoris, the touch making her rasp his name.
“Oh, Dylan.” His hardness was there in seconds, her wet, ready pussy practically drawing him in. Her cheeks were flushed and she had a moment of unreality as she imaged the scene from above, Laura and naked Dylan going at it on her desk, next to the state of Wisconsin's quarterly reports, the thrum of her desktop computer the only soundtrack to cover their groans and gasps.
She was never more grateful to have been promoted out of the cubicle farm than right here. Right now. Right –
He entered her, slick and right and full and his hands roamed her breasts, mouth imprisoning her, hair splaying out across the desk calendar, covering half of July, her body tensed and relaxed at once, full of Dylan Dylan Dylan. What had been panting, earlier, returned, her body completely fixated on his touch, his taste, his fingers on her clit and in her hair, his lips devouring her, biceps tight as her hands explored his body, the dusting of dark hair that seemed to cover so much of him a braille of consummation.
Of reunion.
His thrusts were gentle but thorough, his ass gorgeous to touch, her palms making love to the twin cheeks, with dimples she could feel. Both knew they needed to be quick; Laura sensed it in his careful attention to her clit, how he knew exactly which skin to touch and when, bringing her higher, to a new level of unfolding and opening, waves of orgasm lining up at the ready as he called them forth.
A thin sheen of sweat covered his chest as he pulled back, eyes intent and staring at her, a brief flicker of self-consciousness making her smile shyly as he drove himself deeper into her.
She almost broke the moment with a nervous word but stopped herself. And then – oh, then – her back arched and his fingers and self were lifting, lifting her as all heat and fire and warmth and wetness zoomed between her legs, into her chest, her heart expanding and blossoming, his voice in her ear whispering, “Yes, come, come Laura, I'm – ”
Biting her hand was her only recourse as she twitched and jerked, the sheer force of her orgasm so strong that her body tried to escape it, couldn't run away, had to stay and let the pleasure envelop her, nerve endings straining to grow enough to accept all Dylan gave her now, his legs working for balance and purpose and then –
“Laura, oh, Laura,” he moaned, but she was too caught up in the layered power of her own body's response to reply. Her walls clenched around him, abs tightening in places so deep within her she didn't know she had, Dylan's own climax feeding off hers as her excitement increased, knowing he wanted her, that his body was in hers, that she did this to him.
Her.
Every nerve ending exploded as her hands balled into fists, then her fingers opened and she clawed at his shoulder as he worked to keep his thrusts even, their hips bucking and her ass slamming the desktop, face contorted and primal, her diaphragm nearly spasming, too, as she tried to stay silent, her orgasm cresting and then slowly, too slowly, fading out as Dylan, too, milked his own release.
As reality seeped back into her mind she took in the scene. Naked, sculpted man slumped over her spread-eagled body on her desk? Check. Spot on beige carpet where their juices leaked onto the floor? Check. Hair balled into a rat's nest at the back of her head from the friction of fucking on a veneer desk? Check. Aroma of sweat and sex in an office that normally smelled like cleanser and coffee? Check.
Mike. His name popped into her head as she kissed Dylan's sweet cheek, his breath still rushed as his own orgasm faded, his head resting against her neck.
Guilt? Check.
As she boarded the train for home, her skin still plastered with the scent of Dylan, she marveled at what had just happened a few hours ago. Laura's mind raced with the implications of what she had just done. Breaking her hard and fast rule about having sex at work had been one thing. (Though, she hedged to herself, he wasn't a coworker, so did it really count?). Sleeping with Dylan again was exhilarating. Astounding. Fiery. All the good parts she remembered with a hefty dose of danger, making the office sex some of the best she'd ever had.
Even better, though, had been Dylan. The revelation that those pictures had been of a girlfriend, alright – but a dead girlfriend, one he mourned for nearly two years after the fact – had been glorious. There was no hidden wife, no girlfriend lurking in the shadows, stealing part of his heart.
