by Annika Jones
(03/05/08)
She's tall, graceful, and eloquent. Her office is next to yours and sometimes you can hear her laugh through the open doors. She's so fiery and poised, so insanely fuckable (and way out of your league).
But she smiles and winks at you on her way to the coffee machine, and you go all squishy inside (as if she radiated microwaves). You fight the desire to pull her inside and bend her over your desk. Instead, you bite your pen and watch her swaying hips disappear out of sight. You decide the winking is not for you (not a chance and no way), it's just something she does. And then you're able to work again, until she goes to get a refill.
When you accidentally (yeah, right) meet in the copy room, she stands too close to you, presses her pelvis to your hip and reaches for the stapler. You go all wet from the feel of her breath against your neck, her breasts against your arm (and you think only of pinching nipples). You press back, ever so slightly, and wish you had the guts to grab her and make blurred photocopies of her naked ass. Instead, you completely forget your excuse for being there, and leave empty handed.
She sits down next to you at the company party, a faint scent of Lily of the Valley floating around her, and you fail (completely, totally) in trying not to look excessively happy. In need of a distraction, you reach for your glass but nearly choke on the wine when she puts her arm around your shoulders. Carefully (very carefully) you lean into her, intoxicated by the smell of the sweet and poisonous lily. You drain your glass because you don't know what else to do. She fills it back up for you (as if you weren't dizzy enough already), pours a glass for herself and stands up.
"Come on," she says, "there's something I want to show you."
Wrapped in a haze of disbelief, you let her lead you to the dark and deserted conference room and you proceed to drop the glass and spill your wine all over the floor when she kisses you, decisively and without delay.
You don't lock the door (you couldn't care less) when you push her against the wall and pull her shirt up and her bra out of the way in painful urgency to feel her skin under your palms. She doesn't object, and her breathing gets heavier when you unzip her pants. Turning her so she faces the wall, you grind your pelvis against her in rhythm with your stroking her clit, knowing her naked breasts are pressing into the rough surface of the stone wall. You hear someone walk by in the corridor outside but you don't waver and her panting grows harsher; she's pressing down on your hand. She comes with a barely choked wailing sound that must have carried out into the corridor, and her muscles convulse violently.
For seconds after (while you contemplate if it's possible to die from being too horny), she's completely quiet and still, leaning her forehead against the wall. Then she pulls her clothes back in place and runs her fingers through her hair.
"Fuck this party," she says, "let's go back to my house and have one of our own."
