Something Short n' Sweet

The moment he saw me, his eyes warmed, that deep gaze locking onto mine that made my knees weaken. His smile widened, slow and possessive, like he was drinking me in after a lifetime apart, even though I'd just kissed him goodbye last night before I slipped out the door. I melted every time he looked at me like that; my heart racing, my pussy fluttering with a sudden, insistent ache, remembering how those eyes darkened when he was deep inside me, thrusting with that intensity that left me shattered and begging for more.

Before I could even greet him, he lifted me into his embrace, his strong arms wrapping around my waist like I weighed nothing. “Emmy!” he exclaimed, that nickname rolling off his tongue with such raw affection it sent a shiver straight to my core, my sex clenching at the sound. He spun me around playfully, eliciting a squeal from me as my skirt hiked up my thighs, the cool office air teasing my damp panties. Iris chuckled from the doorway, her emerald eyes sparkling with amusement, but I caught the way her gaze lingered on us, on the way his hands gripped my hips possessively.

“What are you doing here? Irie told me I had a client,” he said, setting me down, not letting go, his body pressed close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle bulge in his pants brushing against my belly. He never called Iris that in the office; “Irie” was the nickname we used outside these walls, when we were free to be ourselves, family bound by bonds deeper than blood.

The second my feet touched the ground, his lips captured mine, wrapping around them in a kiss that stole my breath. His tongue slipped in, tasting of fresh coffee and that unique, masculine flavor that was all Joe; warm, addictive, making me crave more. His hands cradled my face delicately, thumbs stroking my cheeks, but there was an undercurrent of dominance in the way he tilted my head, deepening the kiss until I was moaning softly into his mouth. I could feel the rough stubble of his beard scraping my skin, sending sparks of sensation down my neck, straight to my nipples, which hardened against my bra. The warmth of his body seeped through my clothes, and I could've stood like this forever, lost in the wet slide of our tongues, my pussy growing slicker with every second, imagining him pushing me against the desk right there, hiking up my skirt, and plunging into me while Iris watched.

When the kiss ended, a sigh shook through me, my body humming with unspent desire, my clit throbbing faintly as I pressed my thighs together to ease the ache.

“You two working me over?” he suggested playfully, his voice low and teasing, that confident timbre vibrating through me like a promise.

The words invaded my mind again, twisting into something filthy and forbidden; Irie and I working him over, our mouths and hands worshipping his thick cock, taking turns sucking him deep while he groaned, his hands fisting our hair. Fucking the both of us silly right there on his desk, damn all the prying eyes outside the glass walls. Me bent over first, his shaft slamming into my dripping cunt from behind, as Iris knelt between my legs, her tongue lapping at my clit and his balls, tasting our mingled arousal. Then switching, him pounding into her tight heat while I straddled her face, grinding my soaked pussy against her mouth until we all shattered, cum leaking everywhere, our moans echoing through the office.

Iris only smirked, breaking the spell, her full lips curving in that knowing way. “I’m gonna let our Emmy spill the beans on this,” she purred, her voice smooth as silk, passing me back the box of Sabrina Carpenter goodies. I knew Iris normally handled his clientele, but Sabrina; the stunning singer with that petite, bombshell frame, golden hair cascading in waves, and eyes that spoke of comfortable desire; had come to my firm for a small legal service. She'd needed a quick contract review for her upcoming merchandise line, ensuring the licensing deals with her collaborators were ironclad against any potential IP disputes. While we were wrapping up the paperwork, she'd spotted one of Joe's drawings on my office wall; a sketch of me in repose, all curves and shadows; and asked about it with wide-eyed curiosity. When she found out Joe was the artist, and my boyfriend, she went ballistic, gushing about his work. A few days later, she sent the goodies: including VIP tickets to her concert tonight at Madison Square Garden, for me and Joe, I'd even scored one for Iris; and an invitation to dinner after, where she'd pitch him on creating a photobook of her upcoming tour, capturing the raw, behind-the-scenes intimacy, as well as directing a documentary-style video series. I'd be there too, getting a backstage pass to his creativity, watching up close as he worked his magic on her; coaxing out that natural allure, making her body glow under his lens; and secretly thrilling at the effect he had on his subjects, wondering if it'd spark the fantasies I'd buried deep.

I felt his firm hand on the small of my back as he led me to the soft couch in his office; the one I'd helped him pick out, plush and wide enough for two (or three, my traitorous mind whispered). I knew there were nights where he’d burned through the midnight oil, deep into his craft, crashing on this very spot, his body stretched out, shirt rumpled, looking so fuckable I could've woken him with my mouth around his cock. He had a small personal bathroom with a shower that put his own to shame; steamy, luxurious, with multiple heads that I'd fantasized about using together, water cascading over our naked bodies as he pinned me to the tile and fucked me senseless. And plenty of outfits gifted to him from “grateful” clients: high-end designer suits, crisp shirts, but Joe rarely chose those flashy ones. His taste was simple but elegant; he looked devastating in his business suits and tuxedos at premieres, all sharp lines and controlled power, but I loved him most in a simple pair of jeans and a T-shirt, the fabric clinging to his broad chest and muscled arms. I'd bought him a pair of boots that I told him made him look dangerously and ruggedly fuckable, accentuating his height and that easy swagger, and he’d worn them often just for me, knowing how they made my gaze linger.

His eyes never left me as we sat, his thigh pressing warmly against mine. “What are you cooking up, Emmy?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, his hands still resting on my lower back, fingers tracing lazy circles that made me ache to arch into him.

I smiled, my cheeks flushing as I opened the box, pulling out the VIP tickets to her Short n’ Sweet concert tonight. “Something short n’ sweet,” I told him, grinning, my voice breathy with excitement and the lingering arousal from his touch. “And you’re our date.”