Chapter 4: Professional Temptation
The fluorescent lights hummed like trapped insects, casting a sickly, shadowless glow over the conference table. Seth sat, his knuckles white on the arm of his chair, trying to focus on the budget projection splashed across the screen. The numbers swam, meaningless. All he could feel was the sharp, persistent pressure of Megan’s heel digging into the growing bulge in his dress slacks.
It had started subtly. A brush of her ankle as she sat down, smelling of clean shampoo and the faint, lingering trace of sex—their sex, from the couch, from the car. He’d ignored it. Then, as Karl from finance droned on about quarterly variances, she’d slipped her right foot from her shoe. The cool silk of her stockinged foot had pressed against his calf, then his knee. A silent, predatory exploration.
Now, the blunt heel of her pump was centered perfectly, grinding in a slow, circular motion against his cock, which thickened painfully with each rotation. He shifted in his seat, pretending to adjust his notes. She didn’t relent. The pressure increased, a delicious, torturous friction through the layers of wool and cotton.
He dared a glance. She was angled away from him, one elbow on the table, chin resting on her hand as she stared at the PowerPoint slide with an expression of intense professional interest. The green of her eyes was cool, detached. Only the slightest upward curve at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. She knew. She knew exactly what she was doing to him.
“Seth?” Karl’s voice sliced through the static in his head. “Thoughts on the south-facing facade cost overrun?”
He cleared his throat, the sound ragged. “The… the cladding material. We spec’d a composite. The supplier issues…” He trailed off as Megan increased the pressure, rolling her heel over the head of his cock. A jolt of pure electricity shot up his spine. “…are being resolved. We’re back on schedule.”
He felt the slick proof of his own arousal seep into his boxers, a damp betrayal. Her foot moved, the heel slipping away, and for a moment he felt a cool rush of relief—and loss. Then the bare ball of her foot, still in its stocking, pressed flat against him. She began a slow, maddening rub, up and down the length of him, her toes flexing to find the shape of him through the fabric. It was more intimate than the heel. Softer.More knowing.
“Excellent,” Karl said, clicking to the next slide. “Megan, the client is asking about alternate mood boards for the lobby. Can you have something by Thursday?”
“Absolutely,” she said, her voice smooth as polished stone. Her foot never stopped its work. “I was thinking we could push beyond the sterile aesthetic. Introduce something more… visceral. Primal, even. Something that reminds you of the human body in the space.” She turned her head, finally looking directly at him. Her eyes were bright, challenging. “Don’t you think, Seth? A design that makes you feel something here.” She tapped her own sternum with a fingernail, but the double meaning was a grenade in the quiet room.
He could only nod, his jaw tight. He was fully, achingly hard now, straining against his zipper. Her foot felt it, celebrated it with a firmer, more deliberate stroke.
The meeting bled into another forty minutes.An eternity. Each minute was measured by the rhythm of her foot on his cock, a private, filthy metronome beneath the corporate drone. She’d pause, let him squirm, then start again, her expression never wavering from one of polite engagement. He gave monosyllabic answers. He prayed his erection wasn’t tenting his slacks.
When Karl finally closed his laptop and people began shuffling papers, Seth remained seated, his hands clasped in his lap, a makeshift shield. Megan stood gracefully, slipping her foot back into her shoe with a quiet click.
“Coming?” she asked, gathering her tablet.
“In a minute,” he managed, his voice rough.
She gave him that smirk, then turned and walked out, the sway of her hips in the pencil skirt a final, exquisite torture.The room emptied. The door sighed shut.
He sat in the sudden silence, breathing heavily. He could smell her perfume, and beneath it, the phantom scent of her skin from the night before. His cock throbbed, a persistent, urgent ache. He looked down. The fabric of his pants was dark with a wet spot. He was a mess.
There was a soft knock, then the door opened. Megan slipped back inside, locking it behind her with a decisive snick.
“You look tense,” she said, leaning back against the polished wood.
“What the hell was that?” he whispered, anger and desire twisting together.
“That,” she said, walking slowly towards him, her heels echoing on the tile, “was a reminder.” She stopped in front of him, looking down. “Monday. Fluorescent lights. Quarterly reports.” She placed a hand on his chest, pushed him back into the chair. “And yet, here you are.” Her eyes dropped to his lap. “Absolutely fucking ruined for me.”
She dropped to her knees between his legs. The sight was so profoundly obscene in the stark conference room that his breath caught. Without a word, her fingers went to his belt, the buckle clacking loudly in the hollow room. She unzipped him, her knuckles brushing against the damp head of his cock.
“Still so big,” she murmured, pulling him free. He was fully erect, the skin taut and flushed. A drop of pre-cum glistened at the tip. She leaned forward and licked it off, a slow, flat stroke of her tongue that made his hips jerk. “Tastes like last night. Like my couch.”
Then she took him into her mouth.
He groaned, his head thumping back against the chair. Her mouth was hot, wet, unforgiving. She didn’t start slow. She sucked him deep, her throat working around him, her tongue swirling along the thick vein underneath. One hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, while the other pressed against his lower stomach, pinning him to the chair.
“Fuck, Megan…” His hands tangled in her fiery hair, not guiding, just holding on.
She pulled off with a wet pop, her lips slick. “Quiet,” she hissed, her eyes gleaming. “Someone could walk by.” The danger of it, the potential for exposure, lit a fuse in his gut. She went down on him again, bobbing her head faster now, the sounds obscenely wet. He could feel the tension coiling at the base of his spine. He was already close, humiliatingly close, from her torture under the table.
“I’m gonna…” he gritted out.
She released him, standing up in one fluid motion. She hiked her skirt up around her waist. She wore nothing underneath. The thatch of red hair was damp, her folds already glistening. “Not in my mouth,” she said, her voice low and ragged. “In me.Now. I’m still wet from thinking about your foot.”
She turned, bracing her hands on the cool, polished surface of the conference table, bending over. The presentation of her body, offered against the backdrop of forgotten coffee cups and scattered markers, was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
He stood, his pants around his ankles, and stepped behind her. He gripped her hips, his fingers biting into the soft flesh. He guided himself to her entrance, the head of his cock slick from her mouth. He pushed inside.
They both cried out, the sound swallowed by the sterile room. She was tight, impossibly hot, and clenched around him like a fist. He set a punishing pace from the first thrust, slamming into her, the table shuddering with each impact. One of the empty cups rattled to the floor.
“Yes,” she hissed, pushing back against him. “Harder. Fucking own me, Seth. Right here where they talk about carpet samples.”
He obliged, his thrusts becoming savage, animalistic. The purely physical need obliterated every other thought. The slap of his pelvis against her ass was a sharp, rhythmic counterpoint to their choked gasps. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in hard, quick circles.
“You gonna come for me?” he grunted into her ear, his breath hot. “Gonna squirt all over this expensive fucking table?”
The vulgarity pushed her over. She threw her head back, a silent scream on her lips as her body convulsed. Her inner muscles spasmed around him, and a hot rush of liquid spilled out, dripping down her thighs and onto the industrial carpet below. The scent of her release, sharp and musky, filled the air.
It triggered his own end. He felt the profound, shocking expansion begin at his root, the swelling that stretched her wider, locking him inside her as he erupted. His orgasm was a violent, silent quake. He drove into her, unloading in thick, pulsing ropes, his vision whiting out at the edges. He bit into the fabric of her blouse at her shoulder to stifle his roar, his hips grinding against her as he milked the last shudders from his body.
He slumped over her, his weight pressing her into the table. For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant, indifferent hum of the office HVAC.
Slowly, he pulled out. The separation was a wet, soft sound. They both looked at the mess on the table, on the floor, on them. Reality, cold and bright, flooded back in.
Megan straightened, smoothing her skirt down with trembling hands. She didn’t look at him. She walked to the door, unlocked it, and paused with her hand on the knob.
“Your fly,” she said, her voice now perfectly composed, a colleague’s voice.
He looked down, fumbling with his pants.
“See you at the one o’clock,” she said, and opened the door. The sounds of the office—phones, printers, distant laughter—rushed in. She stepped out and was gone, leaving him alone in the wreckage of the room, the scent of their sin clinging to the air, and the terrible, thrilling understanding that there was no going back.