After hours

Chapter 3- The Long breath before

His mouth crashed down on mine like a dam finally breaking.

There was no gentleness in it—no careful first kiss, no tentative exploration. Six months of restraint poured out in the first brutal press of lips, teeth clashing, tongues tangling immediately. I tasted coffee and heat and the faint metallic edge of his control finally snapping. My hands fisted in his lapels, yanking him closer; his arms banded around my waist, lifting me onto my toes so our bodies sealed together from chest to thigh.

I moaned into his mouth—low, needy—and he answered with a rough sound that vibrated straight down my spine. One hand slid up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading into my chignon, loosening pins until strands fell around my face. He angled my head exactly how he wanted it and deepened the kiss until I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel the hard length of him pressing insistently against my lower belly.

I arched into him instinctively, rolling my hips in a slow grind that made him growl against my lips. His free hand dropped to my ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise, pulling me tighter against him so there was no space left for doubt. I felt every thick inch of him throb through his trousers, felt the way his breathing fractured when I rocked again—deliberate, teasing.

He broke the kiss first, but only to drag his mouth along my jaw, down the column of my throat. Teeth grazed my pulse point—sharp enough to sting, soft enough to promise more. I tipped my head back against the conference-room door, exposing my neck like an offering.

“f**k, Liora,” he rasped against my skin. “You have no idea how many times I’ve pictured this exact spot—your pulse hammering under my tongue while I’m buried inside you.”

The words sent a fresh rush of wetness between my thighs. I hooked one leg around his hip, trying to pull him closer, needing friction. His thigh slotted between mine immediately, pressing up against my core through the thin fabric of my skirt. I gasped at the pressure—perfect, unrelenting—and rocked shamelessly against him.

His hand slid under my skirt, palm skating up the back of my thigh, fingers digging into bare skin just below the lace edge of my panties. He paused there, thumb stroking the sensitive crease where thigh met ass, teasing but not crossing the line.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “I can feel it through the fabric.”

“Then do something about it.”

His laugh was dark, strained. “Patience.”

“I’ve been patient for six months.”

“So have I.” His fingers slipped higher, tracing the edge of my panties—slow, torturous circles that made my hips jerk. “And I’m not rushing this now that I finally have you here.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me—eyes black, pupils blown, lips swollen from my teeth. For a second we simply stared, breathing each other’s air, chests heaving.

Then he kissed me again—slower this time, filthier. Tongue stroking deep, deliberate, like he was f*****g my mouth the way he wanted to f**k the rest of me. His hand finally slipped beneath the lace, fingertips gliding through slick folds, finding my c**t with unerring accuracy.

I cried out into his kiss—sharp, desperate. He swallowed the sound, circling slowly, maddeningly light pressure that made my thighs tremble.

“Quiet,” he whispered against my lips. “Someone walks by that hallway and hears you moaning my name, this ends before it begins.”

The threat only made me wetter. I bit his lower lip in retaliation—hard enough to draw a hiss—then soothed it with my tongue.

He rewarded me by sliding one finger inside—slow, deep, curling just right. My back arched off the door; my nails dug into his shoulders through his shirt.

“More,” I gasped.

He added a second finger, stretching me, pumping steadily while his thumb kept tormenting my c**t. Pleasure coiled tight and fast—too fast. I was already shaking, already close after months of buildup and ten minutes of exquisite torture earlier.

“Don’t come yet,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. He slowed his fingers to shallow thrusts. “Not until I’m inside you.”

“Then f**k me.”

His eyes flared. He pulled his hand free—slowly, letting me feel every inch of withdrawal—and brought his fingers to his mouth. Tongue flicked out, tasting me while holding my gaze.

The sight nearly undid me.

He stepped back—abrupt, deliberate—putting a foot of space between us. My body screamed at the loss.

“Turn around,” he said.

I obeyed instantly, palms slapping against the door, ass presented. He stepped close again, chest to my back, erection grinding against me through our clothes. His hands smoothed down my sides—possessive, reverent—then gathered my skirt, inching it higher until cool air kissed the backs of my thighs.

I felt him reach between us, heard the rasp of his zipper.

My breath hitched.

He pressed forward—not entering, just letting the thick head of his c**k slide along my soaked folds, coating himself in me. Up. Down. Teasing my entrance without pushing in.

I whimpered—couldn’t help it.

“Shh,” he murmured against my ear. One hand came around to cover my mouth—gently, but firm. “Not yet.”

He rocked against me—slow, controlled glides that nudged my c**t with every pass. Pleasure built again, sharper this time. My hips bucked back, chasing more.

He pinned me harder against the door with his body weight.

“Be still.”

I tried. God, I tried. But every glide sent sparks up my spine, every brush against my c**t made my thighs shake.

He leaned in, lips at my ear. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” I panted against his palm. “Inside me. Now.”

His c**k notched at my entrance—blunt, hot, promising. He flexed his hips—just enough to stretch the very beginning of me—then pulled back.

A frustrated sound tore from my throat.

“Not here,” he said quietly. “Not like this.”

I froze.

He kissed the side of my neck—soft, almost tender—then stepped away completely.

The sudden absence of him felt like falling.

I turned slowly, skirt still rucked up, blouse gaping, lips bruised.

He was already tucking himself back into his trousers with shaking hands, jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack. His eyes were wild—hungry, furious at himself, furious at the situation.

“Tonight,” he repeated, voice raw. “My place. Eight o’clock. The black dress. No bra. No panties.”

I stared at him, chest heaving. “You’re stopping. Again.”

“I have to.” He dragged a hand through his hair—disheveling the perfect lines. “If I take you now—bent over this table, skirt around your waist, your moans echoing off the glass—someone will hear. Or see. Or walk in. And then everything burns.”

He stepped closer—close enough to brush a strand of hair from my face, thumb lingering on my cheek.

“But tonight…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Tonight there are no offices. No colleagues. No locked doors with people on the other side. Just us. And I’m going to take my time. I’m going to make you come so many times you forget your own name. Then I’m going to f**k you until neither of us can move.”

I swallowed hard. The promise in his eyes was darker than anything we’d done so far.

“Promise?”

He leaned in, brushed the lightest kiss against my forehead—almost sweet, completely at odds with the filthy words.

“Promise.”

Then he unlocked the door.

Opened it.

Stepped back.

“After you.”

I smoothed my skirt with trembling hands, tried to fix my hair, knew it was useless. My lips were swollen, my neck marked with faint red from his teeth, my thighs slick.

I walked past him—slow, deliberate—feeling his gaze burn into my back the entire way down the hall.

At my desk I sat carefully, thighs pressed together to ease the ache.

The clock read 9:42 a.m.

Ten hours and eighteen minutes until eight o’clock.

I didn’t know how I was going to survive them.