30. Wyn

Derek is in his office on a call, and I'm at my desk, mindlessly working through a folder labeled User Manuals.

I know it's not super likely I'll find what I'm looking for, but a manual that breaks down how to recover from falling for your much older boss in five or six easy-to-follow steps would be nice.

A message from Derek pops up on my screen. I sit upright and feel a quick surge of excitement followed by a prickle of embarrassment. Tiny interactions with him shouldn't affect me like this.

I click on the message, and when it doesn't open immediately, I click on it three more times.

I hate people who do that.

Click once, and then wait.

It's called common sense.

I used to have it, but that feels like a long time ago. Eventually, three windows pop up over each other, and despite feeling a little motion sick from all the text flickering on my screen, my heart starts to race.

Come see me in my office.

I jump to my feet and start moving at speed. Do I like it that he orders me around like this? Not really, no. But my dick loves it. Lives for it. In fact, it's leading the way to his office right now.

I open his door and peer in, doing a quick recon to see if I'm here on business or business.

Derek blinks lazily at me, eyes shadowed with nefarious intent. A smile that perfectly matches his eyes spreads slowly across his face. He flicks the switch on his desk, changing the glass to private, and raises a forefinger to his lips.

Is it me, or is that hot?

Like majorly temperature-spiking, need-to-rip-these-clothes-off-and-throw-them-on-the-floor hot? My dick says that it is. I lock the door and skip over to him, slowing my skip to an awkward tiptoe prance when I realize how eager I look.

I'm not sure it's any better. If anything, it might be worse.

It doesn't matter because Derek is looking at me, and when he looks at me, stars align, and everything is right with the world. Everything.

I mean, everything except for reality, but who cares about that?

I clasp my hands at my chest, fingers knitted together to stop them from shaking, and wait for my assignment.

He motions to his screen, moving the mouse to show me that while the video is off, the audio is on. The slightly tinny voice of Llewellyn Scott, from planning, drones on about the dire implications of a change to the design of the ground floor of a building they've recently broken ground on.

Arousal rips through me. This is insane. It's crazy, but damn, it's hot.

Derek taps his finger to his lips again, and I nod to show I understand.

He picks up a pen and writes $1,220 on a Post-it.

I stare down at it.

With all the ridiculous numbers I've spewed at him up to this point, it takes me a little while to piece together what one thousand two hundred and twenty dollars buys in this neck of the woods. To help jog my memory, Derek opens his mouth and puts his middle finger in it, closing his lips around it and releasing it slowly. His head tilts back as he does it. Lids slide to half-mast and dark eyes turn sultry. His finger glistens at me, shiny and slick.

I know exactly what he wants, so I nod seventeen or eighteen times in rapid succession.

Derek smiles and starts unbuckling my belt carefully so as not to chink metal against metal. I stand there, jostled from side to side, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. My pants drop, and Derek grazes my boner through my boxer briefs with blunt nails before pulling them down as well. My dick bounces and sways from side to side when it's free. It's hard and pink. Desperate like me.

Derek taps his hand on one knee. It's an invitation. I know that much, but I can't work out quite what he wants. Does he want me to sit on his lap?

It doesn't matter.

I don't need to know. He shows me. With a hard tug of my wrist and a firm hand on the small of my back, he manhandles me skillfully. I'm on my feet one second, and the next, I'm over his knee, bare ass on display, hard dick squished between my body and his muscular thigh.

I know for a fact that if I didn't have to be quiet, I'd have a lot to say about this. For one, I'd be advising Derek that this is far from an optimal position for prostate stimulation. It's going to be awkward as fuck, and there's no way he'll be able to nail it from this angle. I turn my head and try to tell him with my eyes, but his focus is not on my face. He has the bottle of lube in his hands and he's coating several of his fingers so liberally I find myself wondering if he's planning to fist me.

You'd think that would worry me. You really would. But it doesn't. All it does is send another cataclysmic wave of arousal through me. Impractical as it is, this position, combined with my forced silence, is really doing it for me. So much so that I scrabble at Derek's ankle, urging him on when he takes too long.

He receives the message. I know that because he slides a thick finger into me in one fluid motion. One second, I'm me, admittedly, a version of me that happily submits to being put over another man's knee, and the next, I'm savage. My spine arches as nerve endings spark and my sphincter pulses in shock. He didn't give me the tip. He didn't so much as circle my opening. There was no teasing. He just shoved his thick dick finger into me all the way up to the knuckle.

Llewellyn whirrs on, "It's simply not possible, people. It will be a total disaster. We won't be able to come back from this with the budget intact," as pleasure and shock combine into something profound. Something that demands a reaction. The reaction forms in my throat. Air flows from my lungs through my vocal cords at speed. Vibrations rumble. I clamp both hands tightly over my mouth and start to pray. I pray for more. And less. And more again. Derek gives it to me. Stretching me, opening me. Sliding two fingers in and out of me until my ass stings and my eyes bulge from the pressure.

I crane my head back and shoot daggers at him. It's too much. Too little. Not enough. Give me more, Satan.

I don't know if he understands or not, but maybe he does because he pulls out and strokes my balls gently.

"Let's all calm down," Derek says, sounding bored. At first, his voice shocks me, and I think he's lost his mind and is talking to me, but he isn't. Of course not. He's on a call. The man's running a company and probing my prostate. Multi-tasking, I guess you could say. "We've been through this before, and we can make it work. Lindsey, find out who we dealt with in the Building Standards Commission on the Kreszman building and get back to me. I'll make the call myself."

"Of course, Mr. MacAvoy," comes the hasty reply.

The sensitive skin on my balls puckers, pulling tighter, as good things dance up my spine, making me shake my ass for more.

This time, he does tease. He rubs the pad of a finger over my sensitized hole. Not hard, but not soft either. A gentle weight that makes pleasure spike and my breathing uneven. He slides his finger into me. It feels different. Thicker. It hits differently too. He angles it down easily and hits my gland with blinding accuracy. It's not the finger he had in his mouth earlier. It's his thumb. He has his thumb wedged up my ass. Deep. All the way to the thickest part of the digit. He's not pummeling my prostate either. He's not tapping or drilling it. He's massaging it. It's a deep, almost constant pressure that makes my eyes roll back in my head. Light and dark flickers. Dark timber, glass. A sea of buildings. The ceiling.

I start to thrash. I dig my fingers into Derek's leg and tear at his flesh with one hand. I catch the sound of my pleasure with the other. I try to at least. I try and try, but I can't catch it all. I look back again and see Derek smiling down at me. His lips are bowed, eyes cruel but kind.

"Help," I mouth. "Help, help!"

He reacts immediately. "Something's come up. I have to jump off," he says. "Llewellyn, could you drop me an email to catch me up?" Then he leans over me and ends the call.

His thumb slides deeper up my ass. Harder. Closer. My hips jerk, canting against his thigh, chafing my cock on the slightly rough wool of his suit. He holds firm, forcing me to absorb more pleasure than I thought I could take. It's not just pleasure that's breaking my mind. It's the absence of it. It's the intensity of what he's doing inside me and the total lack of attention being bestowed on my dick. It's a balance, a precarious balance, almost like the balance between good and evil, but it's a balance nonetheless.

He keeps me there, securely plugged by this thumb, as my dick weeps. Another gust of air blows through my vocal cords. This time, there's no holding it back. My throat opens, my mouth too. Sound erupts from me. I shout my orgasm at the skyline. At the floor. At the ceiling. My voice bounces off glass, thick and full-bodied with one breath and a thin wail the next.

"Oh, sweet Jesus!" I cry, whipping my head up and jumping off Derek so fast that if I had all my faculties about me, I'd be concerned about sustaining whiplash.

I look down in horror.

Oh holy fuck.

Oh no. No, no, no.

I just came all over Derek MacAvoy. His suit is dark, almost black, and his lap is liberally covered in sticky white cum. My sticky white cum.

"Arghhh!" I shriek, spinning around wildly. "I'm sorry. Oh God. Oh no." I look around frantically for something to wipe Derek down with. I find nothing. "Hey, Siri, remind me to put napkins in the Dark Lord's top drawer."

I left my phone at my desk so Siri can't hear me for shit, but that's a problem for Future Me. I also just called Derek the Dark Lord to his face and that feels like it might be a problem for Present Me, but I simply don't have time to deal with it now. I'm busy. Derek's pants are wool. Wool is absorbent. Everyone knows that. I need to act quickly. I reach down to my ankles, where my pants are pooled, and pat down my pockets, looking for a tissue or anything useful. I find nothing, so I quickly pat down a notably stunned-looking Derek's chest. Also nothing.

It's fine. It's no matter. I'm about solutions, not problems. Check my resume. You'll see. I yank off my bow tie and start wiping Derek down with it.

It makes it much worse. Now he's not just drenched in cum, it's smeared all over his thighs.

"Arghhhh," I yell and start spinning again.

Derek catches me, arms circling me tightly, and pulls me onto his lap. My naked ass on the mess I made is the last thing his suit needs, but I don't have it in me to complain because I'm firmly pinned against Derek's chest, and it's so nice here. Safe and warm and snuggly. My head is tucked neatly into the space between his neck and shoulder, and the smell of him is so intoxicating I can't think of anything else. He runs a big hand through my hair and I feel myself go limp against him.

I should probably tell him that all this cuddling won't go down well when he's casually hooking up with other men. As his mentor, I really should. It's not what a stranger will be expecting from a hookup. But I can't find it in myself to do that either. Not when he's so big and strong, and his dick is still hard and jutting into my thigh.

"Wyn," he says, narrowly saving me from releasing the smug-happy gurgle working through me. "It's okay. I have a spare suit, remember? You brought it in for me a few days before the wedding. It's in the closet." He runs a heavy hand down my back. "Remember? I said I didn't need it, and you said being prepared was at the core of your brand."

I giggle deliriously into his neck. It does sound like me.

Pant crisis averted, I burrow as close to Derek as possible and close my eyes for a minute.

I do lick him once or twice on the side of his face. But I do it professionally—with a pointy tongue, not a flat one, so I think it's okay.

My arms snake around his broad chest and I press my face into his neck. When I close my eyes and breathe him in deeply enough, I'm able to forget that he's paying me to do this with him and that this whole thing means something completely different to me than it does to him. Most of all, having my face nestled into his skin and scouring my cheeks gently with his stubble gives me a lovely reprieve from my greatest fear. A fear that tapped my shoulder weeks ago. It started as a soft murmur, but it's grown louder and louder and is near constant now. It turns my blood to ice, paralyzing me where I stand when I so much as think of it. The fear that, at any minute, he'll tell me the experiment is complete. That I've taught him everything he needs to know. That the ruse is over, and it's time for him to fly free.