He has that look in his eyes.
That quiet determination. He is intent on…
I don't get to finish that thought because my body sags and my mouth gapes and my brain melts all over the break-room couch as he stalks towards me, never breaking eye contact, drops to his knees and firmly places his hands on my thighs.
It's that first contact that suffocates me; I feel a heat disparate to the cool air-conditioned office and my eyes flutter shut as my head lolls back, breaking. For the first time in this encounter Tim speaks: "Watch me, Dawn," his voice rough and pained with lust.
And he spreads my legs. The silk slip of my skirt stretches, the seams threaten, and then it relents and allows itself to sit bunched around my waist. And he breathes. Deeply.
"Tim…" It's a whine. He licks his lips. I shudder, struggling to keep locked on his intense gaze.
His hands burn up the outside of my thighs, up my skirt, and pull down my sodden panties. There's a wet spot on my skirt, on the couch. He blows cool air against the juncture of my leg and torso, leans in to lick and nibble at my unmarred, pale outer-lips and time skips as if it were a scratched record.
Tim pulls back and the cold air rushes in to take his place under my skirt; the shock pulls me back to reality. I hear David arguing with a rep and the phone ringing and the entire office milling around, only separated from us by a glass partition and the back of the couch hiding Tim from their view, and I can't bring myself to feel bad that I don't care and that I don't care about Lee.
Because the only thing that matters right now is that he doesn't stop. That Tim never stops. Because my whole self is vibrating and I can't form thoughts and I "need you. Fuck, need you. Touch… Oh fuck, touch me, Tim."
He does. For the first time since entering the break-room he loses eye-contact to flicker down to between my legs, revelling in the sticky wet heat pooling beneath me, staining my skirt with a scent that will tell Lee I've come hard and I've come good and that I wanted it. With that a new flood of wetness trickles from between my lips because it goes without saying, I see it in Tim's actions and in his eyes, that I am his. That I would let him do anything to me for his tongue on my clit and his cock firmly sheathed in my pussy. For him to make me come so hard I think I'll die and then again and again.
And he touches me. His rough fingers part my lips and he drags his tongue across my folds, circling my opening, pressing against but never inside, and tracing back up to flick wildly against my clit and my hands scramble against the cushions of the couch and find purchase in his hair and I watch his head move between my legs, see the pink of his tongue as it undulates against me and I nearly scream.
I let out a muffled, panting yelp and rock my hips against him. I've saturated his face and the couch and I can smell myself in the air. And no one else can do this to me; make me lose my mind and my sense and my control and leave me with just the basal need to come. It's only Tim. "Only you…" I pant, "can do this… to m-FUCK."
He's rammed two fingers into me, tongue insistent against my clit, and is pounding desperately. I'm so wet he's slipping and sliding against me, all friction lost. But he curls his fingers and makes a beckoning motion and I'm lost. My eyes glaze over and my head falls back once more, I clutch against his head. "I'm so close Tim, fuck, I-" And he stops.
And he leaves. "My break's over, Dawn. I've got to get back to work." I'm on the edge, panting and flushed, unable to register what's transpired, as he walks out of the room.
When I come back to myself, I wonder if I can find a way to wipe the pleased smirk off his face.