Use the hour

You ease her off your cock and pull her up onto the conference table. Cheryl lands on her back among the scattered papers, skirt still bunched around her waist, blouse half open. You drag a chair close, sit, and spread her legs wide.

The first long lick through her soaked folds makes her hips jump. You settle in and take your time, tongue working her clit in steady circles while two fingers slide inside and curl. Cheryl’s hand finds the back of your head and holds you there. You keep the pressure exact, building her slowly, then faster, until her thighs tighten around your ears and she comes with a sharp, broken cry that echoes off the glass walls.

You do not stop. You lick her through the aftershocks, then stand, line up, and push back into her in one smooth thrust. This time the pace is deeper, more deliberate, angled to drag against the spot that makes her gasp. You fuck her like that for long minutes, watching her face, adjusting whenever her breath catches, until she comes again around the thick length of you, clenching hard enough to make your vision blur.

You pull out, drop back to your knees, and put your mouth on her a second time, tasting both of you, tongue slow and thorough while she trembles and tries to push you away and pull you closer at the same time. When her third orgasm leaves her boneless and quiet, you finally stand, stroke yourself a few times, and finish across the smooth, toned plane of her stomach, marking the body you have spent the last hour focused entirely on.

Cheryl lies there afterwards, chest rising and falling, eyes half-lidded, the smugness temporarily gone. You check the time. Fifty minutes have passed. The remaining ten are spent in near silence while she catches her breath and you straighten your clothes, the taste of her still on your tongue and the knowledge of Ruby waiting already settling in the back of your mind.