*waves at fandom* Oh Hai! I have NO idea where this little ficlet came from but it was suddenly alive and mostly written in my head without much effort at all. Its a little different than the style I usually write in as I've been influenced by a few different fandom styles here and there. This is most certainly M rated so no kids please!
Miss you all. See, I'm not gone!
Thanks for reading.
I don't own Lie To Me and I really don't know who does.
Its four o'clock and she needs to concentrate, needs to actually be productive instead of studying the lines of a contract she's now scanned over 1000 times without digesting a word of it.
She needs to stop thinking about him.
Trying to focus on something other than the feeling of his fingers lightly tracing her spine through the thin fabric of her blouse hasn't been working nor can she stop the rush of heat to her sex as her traitorous mind sends her flashes of sense memory; warm breath against her cheek, the deep rumble in her ear from lips that are close enough to brush her sensitive skin if she moves just a millimeter, the lascivious lick of his lips as he eyes the lacy edge of her bra that has peeped out as she leans forward.
It's the growl in his voice she fears lately. The one that says if she'll only let her guard down for just a moment, he could have both of their walls scaled before she has a chance to breathe again. Have her up against the book case, the staircase, the edge of the couch, the wall of the cube, shirt off, skirt up, panties pushed gloriously aside, and three inch heels digging into the backs of his thighs before she could call up her emergency backup defenses yet again.
Maybe if she can just take the edge off of her desire, feed her Id for one tiny moment, her mind will be her own again for long enough to let her get something done. She's found herself doing this much too often after long days surrounded by him. Usually she can wait until she gets home but a few times she's found herself tied up in traffic on the beltline for an hour or more when the pulsing ache between her thighs has her twisting and squirming against her heated leather seat, slipping a hand between her legs in the darkness and squeezing, stroking, panting until her fingers tap against the dash, clutch at the wheel, and she comes tight and hard and thinking of his hands on her body.
This is the first time she's even considered doing this in her own office but she'd locked the door an hour ago, telling herself she didn't want her work to be interrupted when the hard and bitter truth was, she'd seen this moment coming for months, known the desperation would find her here eventually.
Glad that she's worn a skirt today rather than her tight dresses with their inaccessible zippers, she reaches behind her back to loosen her waistband and slides her wrist down her belly. She turns her chair toward the window and leans forward, bracing herself against the cool ledge as her fingertips meet damp heat. She's been halfway there for the last hour and as she strokes the sides of her clit with a practiced hand and bites down on her tender lip to stifle her cries, she knows it won't take long this time.
Her hand moves lower and she rocks forward taking her fingers as deep as she can, not nearly as deep as she craves his cock inside of her, but deep enough to fan the flame that's building fast, spreading around her hips to the base of her spine and seeping into every limb as she grinds into the heel of her hand. She twists and writhes against the coiling heat, pants and grunts and rolls against her fingers again and again until she's perched at the edge, stretching and straining for the release that's right there…
"Need a hand, love?"
And she's pulled back, but just barely. Because the truth is, she's far too gone to even care that he's used his master key to enter her office without the courtesy of knocking because he's Cal fucking Lightman.
She swivels around, not bothering to remove the hand that continues to stroke, to thrust, to tease, to keep her poised just at the breaking point of abandon.
"Doing fine on my own," she breathes, voice hitching just slightly as she finds her stride again and locks eyes with him.
He deserves this for making her want him. Deserves to know exactly what he's turned her into and to ache in the same excruciatingly exquisite way she does.
Fixing her eyes on his, she lets every drop of naked hunger she reads on his face fill her to the point of overflowing. She doesn't hold back the tiny noises that stick in her throat as her hand scrabbles for purchase against the slick glass of her desktop. Clenching the muscles of her thighs again and again, she feels the familiar trembling, the heat that contracts and then expands as she gasps and sighs. She closes her eyes as the most powerful of the spasms shake her and when she opens them again a moment later he's closer, moving in for the kill when she's at her most vulnerable.
Pinning him to the floor with a half-sated, half-deadly glance, she strokes her sensitive quivering walls until there's nothing left but the heaviness in her limbs and the satisfaction she gets from the bewildered look on his face.
Sweeping her hair behind her ear, she withdraws her hand and stands on shaky legs to close her zipper. She's not giving him an invitation, not leaving him an opening. Instead, she quickly gathers her things and nearly breezes past him. He hasn't said a single word but he's watching her with a curious expression that tells her she's hit a nerve tonight.
Stopping at the last moment, she moves in close and is rewarded as he stiffens just slightly.
"Goodnight, Cal." She presses her lips dangerously close to his ear and raises the tips of her fingers that bear the raw and warm scent of her sex to his mouth, painting him with her taste.
She's so certain she's gained the upper hand that when he grabs her wrist and draws her fingers into the moist heat of his mouth, she can only stand rooted to tile while his tongue licks her clean.
"Goodnight, Gillian," he growls as he releases her.
Damn him.