Marcus Yeats was so very beautiful. A smile ticked at the corner of her mouth. And really it was quite strange to be felt up by one of the most senior partners in the firm. A dark, dangerous man and one she should not provoke. Yet…she didn’t remove his hand.
It was wrong. She knew it, but whatever compulsion he had to touch her, she wasn’t going to deny. She’d worked for the firm for a month and he’d swept past her on her first day, tall, assured and more than one of the workers on her floor sent hungered looks in his wake. Her included. Though her obsession had begun years before.
Another familiar—but rough and nonhuman—hand moved under her skirt, the light rake of claws over her inner thigh causing her breath to hitch. Something…breathed against her pussy. Her stomach hollowed, and the impossible idea of a satisfied hum resonated against her flesh. She pressed her lips together, denying her deliberate act that morning.
Material made little difference to her invisible lover, the press of fingers or lips or tongues as real as if her clothes didn’t exist. Still, the thought, the idea of offering herself, of making her strange, silent lover very aware that she wanted, craved his touch had her neatly folding her underwear that morning and putting her bra and panties back in their drawer.
The dual sensation of this strange lover with the promise of Marcus’ slow, inexorable touch, the slide of his fingers, stroking back the folds of her skirt to tease her aching sex forced her thoughts to flicker. Every morning. Invisible hands and Marcus driving her slowly insane.
But the idea of him being more than a puppet at her side burned into her mind’s eye. She could almost see it, see him dropping to his knees in the crowded lift, fisting her skirt at her hips and finding her bare and wet for him…
Marcus’ hand tightened at her hip, fingers biting before they slipped down across the smooth cloth to catch it and hook his fingers between her thighs. He wasn’t in her thoughts. He couldn’t be. But fuck, heat flooded Adela, her head falling back against the metal wall, the ache to ride his clever fingers flaring up through her body. But that wasn’t the game. She moved and it ended. And so she had to allow the torture to continue.
It did, with the teasing stroke of a hand under her shirt. A real hand, from the man half pressed up against her as the crowd shifted to allow people to escape to their floor. Swain. His name tag gleamed against his black compliance uniform. He too had eyes only for his pad as his sure fingers drew tormenting patterns over her breast and around her nipple.
The ache for him to squeeze, to flick, to heighten the increasing beat of pleasure from the play of Marcus’ fingers swamped her. Her nails bit into the soft flesh of her palms. She needed to move. To turn into the men pleasuring her, tunnel her fingers through Marcus’ hair and drag his sweet mouth down to hers.
Her silent lover only added to her torment with the agonizing promise of taloned hands that gripped her thighs, pinning her legs open, and with a tongue licking the outer lips of her sex, promising hours of dark joy. Of driving her to the brink of pleasure until a wild release took her—
“Floor fifty-eight.”
The synthetic voice of the grav-lift jerked her forward and all touch fell away. Adela huffed out a breath and her trembling fingers hurriedly straightened her clothes. No, their touch never lasted. She never found the satisfaction they promised. And she ached to see something from them. To know that she wasn’t trapped all alone in her bubble of unreality as their breath quickened and she witnessed want in Marcus’ eyes.
She pushed her way out, willing herself not to look back. Not that she could see them, him in the crush of bodies. Still, she couldn’t help herself. Marcus’ ice-blue eyes held her for a hard moment, narrowed and sharp…until the doors slid shut in front of her.
Adela scrubbed a
It was wrong. She knew it, but whatever compulsion he had to touch her, she wasn’t going to deny. She’d worked for the firm for a month and he’d swept past her on her first day, tall, assured and more than one of the workers on her floor sent hungered looks in his wake. Her included. Though her obsession had begun years before.
Another familiar—but rough and nonhuman—hand moved under her skirt, the light rake of claws over her inner thigh causing her breath to hitch. Something…breathed against her pussy. Her stomach hollowed, and the impossible idea of a satisfied hum resonated against her flesh. She pressed her lips together, denying her deliberate act that morning.
Material made little difference to her invisible lover, the press of fingers or lips or tongues as real as if her clothes didn’t exist. Still, the thought, the idea of offering herself, of making her strange, silent lover very aware that she wanted, craved his touch had her neatly folding her underwear that morning and putting her bra and panties back in their drawer.
The dual sensation of this strange lover with the promise of Marcus’ slow, inexorable touch, the slide of his fingers, stroking back the folds of her skirt to tease her aching sex forced her thoughts to flicker. Every morning. Invisible hands and Marcus driving her slowly insane.
But the idea of him being more than a puppet at her side burned into her mind’s eye. She could almost see it, see him dropping to his knees in the crowded lift, fisting her skirt at her hips and finding her bare and wet for him…
Marcus’ hand tightened at her hip, fingers biting before they slipped down across the smooth cloth to catch it and hook his fingers between her thighs. He wasn’t in her thoughts. He couldn’t be. But fuck, heat flooded Adela, her head falling back against the metal wall, the ache to ride his clever fingers flaring up through her body. But that wasn’t the game. She moved and it ended. And so she had to allow the torture to continue.
It did, with the teasing stroke of a hand under her shirt. A real hand, from the man half pressed up against her as the crowd shifted to allow people to escape to their floor. Swain. His name tag gleamed against his black compliance uniform. He too had eyes only for his pad as his sure fingers drew tormenting patterns over her breast and around her nipple.
The ache for him to squeeze, to flick, to heighten the increasing beat of pleasure from the play of Marcus’ fingers swamped her. Her nails bit into the soft flesh of her palms. She needed to move. To turn into the men pleasuring her, tunnel her fingers through Marcus’ hair and drag his sweet mouth down to hers.
Her silent lover only added to her torment with the agonizing promise of taloned hands that gripped her thighs, pinning her legs open, and with a tongue licking the outer lips of her sex, promising hours of dark joy. Of driving her to the brink of pleasure until a wild release took her—
“Floor fifty-eight.”
The synthetic voice of the grav-lift jerked her forward and all touch fell away. Adela huffed out a breath and her trembling fingers hurriedly straightened her clothes. No, their touch never lasted. She never found the satisfaction they promised. And she ached to see something from them. To know that she wasn’t trapped all alone in her bubble of unreality as their breath quickened and she witnessed want in Marcus’ eyes.
She pushed her way out, willing herself not to look back. Not that she could see them, him in the crush of bodies. Still, she couldn’t help herself. Marcus’ ice-blue eyes held her for a hard moment, narrowed and sharp…until the doors slid shut in front of her.
Adela scrubbed a
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