Ryan goes to work.

The chime over the door gives a flat little beep as you step inside, shutting out the already-warming Austin air. The office smells faintly of dust and the bitter edge of coffee that’s been reheated twice.

Yvette’s behind her desk this time, jacket off, sleeves rolled, posture straight enough to make the chair look uncomfortable. A manila folder lies open in front of her, papers spread in a half-fan like she’s been rifling through them for hours.

“Sit,” she says without looking up.

You do.

She flips a page, skims, then sets it aside with a precise little tap of her nails on the desk. “Okay, tell me more about what happened with Rachel. Tell me what you saw, what you think, and don’t leave anything out.”

So you tell her. The little flirtations. The way Rachel seemed to playing to an audience. How you're reasonably certain that Rachel's flirting had ulterior motives. The only piece you leave out is what happened during, and after your altercation with Baldy. Yvette doesn’t interrupt, but you can feel her focus narrowing with each detail, like a camera lens tightening on a subject.

When you finish, she leans back, crossing her arms. “I don’t like it. This was supposed to be clean. Three days, a couple pictures, easy paycheck. I’m going to talk to the wife again. In person. Until then, keep your eyes open, but don’t poke the hornet’s nest.”

You nod. She pushes a thin stack of forms across the desk. “While you’re here, make yourself useful. Check property records for these addresses and see if anything has changed hands in the last six months. And call the county clerk about this one. Find out who has been paying the taxes.”

The chair in front of the office terminal squeaks as you settle in. The monitor hums faintly when it wakes, lines of text ghosting into focus. You start with the records search, fingers moving over the keys as the database coughs up property transfers and liens. The paper edges bite into your thumb as you flip through addresses.

Behind you, Yvette moves. Filing something, maybe. Papers shuffle and a drawer slides shut with a low clunk. Her boots sound soft on the carpet as she circles to the side of your desk.

“Use the backchannel logins,” she says, leaning in just enough to reach over and tap the screen. Her sleeve brushes your arm. “The public search will not give you half of what you need.”

You can smell her perfume now. Sharp citrus at the top, warmer spice underneath. She does not move away immediately, letting the scent and her presence linger before stepping back.

You make the calls next. The clerk’s line plays tinny hold music, a syrupy piano loop that sounds like it was recorded in a motel lobby sometime in the nineties. Yvette drops into the chair across from you, crossing one leg over the other. The motion is casual, but the slow sweep of her heel catching the carpet drags your focus for half a second before you pull it back to the monitor.

She is not watching you directly, but her gaze keeps finding its way back to you. When you speak into the receiver, low and even, coaxing details out of a bored county employee, her eyes flick to your mouth.

You jot notes with one hand, pen scratching against the pad. The other stays near the phone, fingers resting still. Yvette leans back, arms folding across her chest, which makes her blouse draw tighter. You glance at her once. Just once. And she still straightens a little in her chair, like the shift in your attention is something she feels.

The hold music kicks back in. You keep your eyes on her this time. “Stay there,” you murmur, not for the clerk, but for her. She doesn’t move, except to uncross her legs and re-cross them slowly.

By the time you hang up, the air between you has changed. She slides another slip of paper with license plate numbers across the desk with her index finger. Her hand pauses there, waiting, like she is offering it rather than just delivering it.

You take the paper from her hand, brushing her fingers deliberately. “Sit next to me,” you tell her, not looking up from the screen. She obeys without a word, pulling her chair close. The faint scent of her perfume mixes with the warmth of her body beside yours.

The room goes quiet except for the keys and the hum of the terminal. She stays very still, like she is waiting for whatever you will ask of her next. Her knee brushes yours every time you shift in the chair. It is not an accident.

The cursor blinks. Processing. You tilt your head toward her. “Closer.”

She doesn’t hesitate. Her chair wheels forward until the armrest nudges the side of your leg. You keep typing.

The database loads, a list of registrations scrolling down the screen. You pick up the phone again, dialing another number from the case file. The line clicks, and you are met with another automated voice instructing you to hold.

You set the receiver between your shoulder and your ear. The command comes low, deliberate. "Under the desk."

That flash in her eyes: not hesitation, just calculation, dissolves into obedience. She slips from the chair, tucking herself into the shadow of the desk with practiced ease. Her knees press against the insides of your calves, grounding you both as her fingers trail up your thighs, slow enough to make your breath hitch.

You feel her before you see it. The warm exhale through the fabric of your pants, the way her breath catches when she noses along the outline of your cock. Then her mouth opens, and the first wet drag of her tongue from base to tip makes your grip tighten on the phone.

Her lips seal around you with just enough suction to draw a quiet curse from you, her hair spilling over your lap like a dark curtain. The backs of your hands brush against the silk of it as you settle them on her head. She takes you halfway at first, adjusting, before the steady pull of her throat coaxes you deeper. Every movement is deliberate, every swallow calculated to wring another rough sound from your throat... but her obedience never wavers. Not even when your fingers twitch against her skull.

The hold music drones on, syrupy and tinny in your ear. You rest your hand casually on her head. Not forcing, just there. A reminder. Her perfume is stronger here, cut with the warmer scent of skin.

The operator's voice crackles through the receiver, crisp and businesslike. You answer each question with measured precision. Every number, every clipped syllable deliberately controlled.

Yvette swallows around you as you speak, the slow undulation of her throat turning digits into breathless pauses. Her fingers press into the meat of your thighs, blunt nails just shy of breaking skin.

"Seven."

Her lips seal tighter, the suction flaring heat up your spine. "Five." A wet gasp as she surfaces for air, slick and barely audible before diving back down. "Two." The vibration of her moan when you fist a hand in her hair. Just enough pressure to make her whimper, and she takes you deeper, throat fluttering around the intrusion.

You grit your teeth against the next number, fighting to keep your voice steady while she hollows her cheeks. The broad stroke of her tongue underneath, the sharp pull at the tip... It drags a rough inhale from you, cutting through the operator's next question.

"Apologies, say that again?"

Your fingers flex against her scalp, and she shudders, gripping your legs as she adjusts her angle. The next string of numbers comes out strained, syllables fraying at the edges when she sucks hard on the downstroke. The desk creaks faintly as she shifts, and you catch yourself before your hips jerk—just barely—into the wet heat of her mouth.

Still, she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. Just swallows you down like it’s the only thing keeping her breathing.

The operator puts you on hold again. Another stretch of silence thick with the slick sounds of her mouth working you over. Your palm presses lightly against her scalp, guiding the rhythm—slow, deliberate—letting her set the suction before nudging her lower, deeper.

Her throat tightens around you when she exhales through her nose. The heat of it radiates down your cock like a brand. The sight of her beneath the desk is obscene: lips stretched wide, cheeks hollowed, eyes glossy and locked on yours as if waiting for permission to break.

You shift your hips, just enough to make her adjust. The wet drag of your cock slides from her lips before she takes you back in, unhurried and filthy. Every inch of friction is deliberate. Every choked breath hits your skin.

The rhythm turns thick with spit and submission. Her eyes flick upward quietly as you use her mouth, glossy and dark, before closing again as she takes you deeper.

The operator's voice returns, and your grip tightens in Yvette’s hair, keeping her flush against you. Your tip buried in the soft squeeze of her throat. She swallows reflexively, the pulse of her muscles deliberate and relentless around you as she strains not to move.

The air from her nose is hot and uneven against your skin, trapped between your bodies in quick, shallow bursts. She doesn’t dare make a sound, but every ragged exhale vibrates through you, her lips sealed tight, jaw stretched wide. A bead of saliva escapes the corner of her mouth, tracing a slow, slick path down your length before dripping onto your boot.

Her chest heaves against your knees, breath coming too fast, but she doesn’t pull away. Just stays there, taking it—mouth full, throat working—until the call ends with a mechanical click.

You don’t let her move. Your calves stay locked, boot wedged between her thighs, applying slow, deliberate pressure. She angles her hips almost imperceptibly, chasing the friction, and you can feel the tremble in her muscles when her breath hitches against you. The only sound left is the wet drag of her lips, the stifled whine caught in her chest as she waits for what comes next.

The office line rings.

You let it go twice before picking up. “Gallagher Investigations.”

“Ryan,” comes the voice on the other end, faint Russian lilt curling around the words. “So Yvette is letting you answer the phones now?”

“Only when it’s important.” You keep your voice flat, not rising to the bait.

“This is a social call,” Tatiana says. “Tell your boss my sister is having a baby shower this Saturday. She should come. It will be low key. Just family and friends.”

“Alright. What’s the address?”

She starts dictating. You jot it down, curling your calves tighter around Yvette’s head, holding her against the base. Her breathing stills completely, lips sealed tight, throat working in small, relentless swallows.

“Sorry,” you say into the phone, voice perfectly steady. “Repeat that, I want to make sure I have it right.”

Tatiana’s sigh crackles through the line as she repeats the address. Yvette’s throat clenches tighter, her breath held, trembling in silent submission. You trace idle circles on her scalp with your thumb—rewarding, teasing—while forcing her to stay buried between your thighs. A choked swallow pulses around you, her lips twitching against your skin.

Spit glistens at the corners of her mouth, the slick mess coating your cock as you finally let her pull back... just enough to drag in a shuddering breath before pushing her down again. Her fingers scrabble at your legs, nails biting in protest, but the muffled moan when you thrust shallowly into her mouth is pure surrender.

"Good girl," you mouth to her, and Yvette’s eyes flicker shut at the praise, her tongue curling under your length, sucking harder as if to prove her worth. The desk creaks under her shifting weight, her knees pressing into the floor, thighs squeezing around your boot as she desperately grinds her needy cunt against it.

You finish jotting the address, the pen scratching loud in the charged silence. "Got it," you say, tone crisp, professional. But your grip on Yvette’s hair turns possessive, fingers tightening as you grind up into her mouth—just once—hard enough to make her gag silently.

Her throat convulses, fluttering around you, and she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even try.

When Tatiana finishes, you hum. “Got it now.”

“Good. Tell her I’ll expect her.”

“Will do.”

“You sound… busy,” she says, idle curiosity in her tone.

“Paperwork,” you say.

“Mmh. Good. Stay busy. Goodbye, Ryan.”

The line clicks off.

The only sound in the room is her slow, careful breathing as Yvette waits for you to decide when she can move.

You set the receiver back in its cradle, then grip her hair in both hands, dragging her forward until her nose presses flush against your hips. She chokes, spit bubbling past her lips as you thrust deep—no mercy, no rhythm, just raw, unrelenting ****. Her throat spasms, struggling to take you, but she forces herself to relax, swallowing around the thick intrusion with **** obedience.

You fuck her mouth like it’s yours—because it is—each snap of your hips driving her further into the floor, her knees skidding against the wood. Her moans vibrate through your cock, wet and broken, her nails clawing at your thighs as if she’s torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer. You don’t let up, slamming into her until her eyes water, the slick sounds of her gagging filling the room.

When the pressure builds, you don’t warn her. Just bury yourself to the hilt and hold her there, throbbing as you pump hot and deep down her throat. She swallows on instinct, her body working to take every drop, her breath hitching when you finally pull back—her lips swollen, chin glazed with spit and cum.

You yank her up by the hair, forcing her to look at you. “Clean it,” you order, thumb dragging over her bottom lip. She opens obediently, tongue darting out to lick the mess from your fingers, You then drag her back down to your cock, still slick with spit and your own release. "Tongue," you command, voice low and rough.

Yvette doesn’t hesitate. She leans in, her breath hot against your skin before her tongue laps along the underside, slow and deliberate. She swirls the tip around the head, gathering every drop before dragging her mouth down the length, her lips sealing around you in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss.

Her eyes flick up as she works, watching you as her tongue flattens against your shaft, licking you clean like you’re something sacred. The sight of her—her swollen lips, the way her lashes flutter with each stroke—makes your cock twitch against her tongue.

"That's a good girl," you sigh, as you press deeper into her mouth. She groans, sucking harder, her tongue pressing against the vein on the underside until she’s wrung out every last trace. Only when you’re completely clean do you finally pull back, leaving her panting, lips parted in surrender.