My Secretary's Hungry Eyes at the Lisbon Christmas Party

The Lisbon office had been dressed for the annual Christmas party until the glass walls looked almost tender. Gold ribbon climbed the columns, pine and cinnamon hung in the warm air, and beyond the windows the river held the city lights in a long dark shine. Fiona stood near the buffet in a burgundy dress cut close to every curve, the neckline low across her full breasts, the hem hugging the generous swell of her hips. At fifty-two she moved like a woman who knew exactly what her body still did to a room. Her dark hair was pinned up, a few strands loose against her throat, and her mouth was a deep red that matched the silk.

Across the crowded floor her eyes found Franklin and stayed. He was forty-one, tall in an open suit jacket, the boss the whole floor deferred to and the man she had wanted through years of late meetings and careful distance. He looked back. Fiona did not drop her gaze. She let it travel, openly, down the line of his chest, over the belt at his waist, along the length of his thighs, then up again to his face with a hunger she had stopped pretending to hide. Heat gathered low in her belly. The festive press of bodies and the glitter of the lights had finally brought years of simmer to a boil.

Fabian stood a few feet away, her husband, laughing with two colleagues from accounting, a glass of sparkling water in his hand. He was pleasant and distracted, utterly unaware of the way his wife's attention had locked onto another man. Fiona shifted her weight. Her thighs pressed together under the tight dress. Her nipples tightened against the silk, and she did not bother to hide the small, shameless curve of her mouth. Franklin answered with the smallest nod. Someone near the speakers laughed too loudly. A waiter passed with a tray. Fiona took a sip of club soda, clear-headed, every sense sharp, and watched Franklin excuse himself from a cluster of managers and move toward the windows. Her hungry eyes followed every step he took.

She had felt this in quiet offices, in the brush of his hand when he passed her a file, in the way his voice dropped when the door was shut. Tonight the wanting had nowhere left to go but outward. She let her gaze roam him again, slow and greedy, and when he turned and caught her at it, neither of them looked away.

Fiona set her glass down and crossed the room. She did not hurry. The dress clung and shifted with each step, and she felt Franklin tracking the sway of her hips the way she had tracked him. Colleagues brushed past with plates and greetings. She smiled at them, warm and ordinary, and kept walking until her path took her close along his side. She let her full breasts brush his arm as she passed, a deliberate, lingering press of soft flesh through silk, and she heard the rough catch of his breath. Heat flared where they had touched. She did not apologize. She stopped near the tall window where a sprig of mistletoe had been tied above the frame, half hidden by a column, and waited.

He came. Of course he came. Up close he smelled of clean soap and warm wool, and his eyes were darker than they had any right to be under office lights.

"You've been looking at me all night," he said, low.

"I've been looking at you for years," Fiona said. Her voice was steady. Her pulse was not. "Tonight I stopped pretending I don't want you inside me."

Franklin's jaw tightened. He glanced once toward the room, toward Fabian still laughing with the accountants, then back to her. "Say it again."

"I want to feel you inside me." She stepped closer until her breasts touched his chest. "I've wanted your cock for longer than I should admit. If you want the same, tell me. If you don't, I'll go back to my husband and keep my hands to myself."

"I want it," he said, without hesitation. "I've wanted you bent over my desk since the first year you started locking that door behind you. I want to fuck you. Hard. Tonight. Only if you want it too."

"I want it," she said. "All of it. Come with me."

They slipped out through the side corridor while the music swelled and a toast began near the windows. No one called after them. Fiona's heels were quiet on the carpet. Franklin's hand found the small of her back, not pushing, only there, and she leaned into the heat of it. At the executive suite she used the spare key she had carried in her clutch all evening, the one she had taken from the drawer with shaking fingers before the party started, already knowing what her hungry eyes might demand if he met them. The lock clicked. They stepped inside. He shut the door and turned the bolt, and the muffled party fell away.

"Still sure?" he asked.

"Lock it and put your hands on me," she said.

He did. The kiss was not gentle. Fiona opened for him at once, tongue sliding against his, a low sound caught in her throat as his palms filled with her breasts through the dress. She was eager, wet already, aching. She broke the kiss and dropped to her knees on the rug, the tight silk riding up her thighs, and looked up at him with her mouth parted and her eyes bright.

"Let me," she said.

"God, yes."

She opened his belt and his pants with quick, sure hands and drew him out. He was thick and already hard, the head flushed, a bead of moisture at the tip. Fiona moaned at the sight of him and leaned in, licking a slow stripe from base to crown before she took him into her mouth. She was sloppy and worshipful at once, saliva shining on her lips, her tongue working the underside while she sucked him deep. One hand wrapped his shaft. The other cupped him below, gentle and greedy. She bobbed, wet sounds filling the quiet suite, and looked up so he could see her red mouth stretched around him, mascara-dark eyes full of want.

"Fuck, Fiona," he groaned. His fingers slid into her pinned hair, not forcing, only holding. "Just like that. Look at you. My secretary on her knees with my cock down her throat."

She hummed around him and took him deeper, gagging softly, spit spilling over her chin onto the swell of her breasts. She pulled off with a wet gasp, stroked him, and licked the head again, filthy and devoted. "I've wanted to taste you for so long," she said, voice rough. "Wanted this cock in my mouth, in my cunt. Don't hold back. Use me."

He lasted as long as he could. When his thighs started to shake he drew her up, kissed the salt and spit from her mouth, and turned her toward the wide desk. "Bend over."

Fiona went willingly. She planted her palms on the polished wood and arched her back, ass lifted, the burgundy dress stretched tight across it. Franklin hiked the hem to her waist. She wore black lace panties, already soaked through. He hooked them aside rather than bothering to remove them and ran two fingers through her slick folds. She was dripping, swollen, clenching at nothing.

"So wet," he said. "All from looking at me."

"From wanting you to fuck me," she said, pushing back against his hand. "Please. I need it. Hard."

He lined himself up and pushed in with one deep, powerful thrust. Fiona cried out, the stretch exquisite, her cunt gripping him as he seated himself to the hilt. He held there a moment, both of them shaking, then drew back and drove in again. The desk creaked. Her breasts swayed heavily beneath her, half spilled from the neckline, and she moaned without shame, pushing back to meet every stroke.

"Yes. Yes. Deeper. Fuck me like you've wanted to."

He gave her exactly that. His hands locked on her hips and he pounded into her, deep and relentless, the wet slap of their bodies loud in the locked suite. Each thrust shoved a broken sound out of her. She reached back and spread herself wider, greedy for every inch, her wedding ring flashing once under the lamp before she gripped the edge of the desk and held on. Franklin leaned over her, chest to her back, and fucked her harder, grinding deep at the end of every stroke until her legs trembled.

"You feel incredible," he said against her ear. "Tight. Hot. Taking me so well."

"Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

He didn't. He fucked her until her moans turned ragged and her pussy fluttered around him, close already, and then he pulled out. She whimpered at the loss. He turned her, kissed her hard, and walked her backward to the leather couch against the wall. He sat and drew her down over him. Fiona straddled his lap, dress bunched at her waist, panties tugged aside, and sank onto his cock with a long, shaking sigh. The angle was deeper. She braced her hands on his shoulders and began to ride.

Her heavy breasts bounced with every grind, spilling further from the silk until he yanked the neckline down and they fell free, full and soft, nipples tight and dark. He filled his hands with them, thumbs rubbing, mouth closing over one and then the other while she worked herself on him in frantic circles. She was loud now, panting, chasing the friction, her ass slapping his thighs.

"Look at these," he said, squeezing. "Perfect. Ride me. Take what you came for."

"I am," she gasped. "God, Franklin, you feel so good. I've needed this. Needed you splitting me open."

She rode him harder, grinding her clit against him, breasts swaying in his face, hair coming loose around her shoulders. Sweat shone on her throat. He thrust up to meet her, hands sliding to her ass, spreading her, helping her take him to the root again and again. The couch creaked under them. Fiona's moans climbed. She was close, shaking, mouth open, eyes half shut with pleasure.

Franklin surged up and flipped her onto her back before she could tip over. She went willingly, eagerly, legs falling open. He pinned her thighs wide, hooked her knees over his arms, and drove back into her in one long stroke. The new angle hit deep. Fiona's head tipped back against the cushion and she cried out, hands clutching his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt.

"Yes. There. Fuck me there. Harder."

He pounded her, powerful and steady, hips snapping, cock dragging over the spot that made her see white. Her breasts bounced with every thrust. Her cunt clutched him, wet and greedy, and she pushed up to meet him, taking every inch, moaning his name like a confession. He held her legs wide and open and fucked her without mercy, exactly the way she had asked, watching her face come apart.

"Come for me," he said. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it."

The orgasm hit her hard. Fiona screamed, back arching, pussy clamping down in tight, pulsing waves as pleasure tore through her. She shook under him, thighs trembling in his grip, voice breaking on his name while he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out until she was gasping and oversensitive and still pushing back for more. He lasted only a little longer. The sight of her undone, the grip of her body, the years of wanting finally spent in her, undid him.

"Where?" he managed.

"My mouth. My tits. I want it on me."

He pulled out at the last second. Fiona slid down, mouth open, tongue out, breasts lifted in her hands. Franklin stroked himself twice and came with a rough groan, thick ropes of cum striping her tongue, her lips, the soft heavy curves of her breasts. She moaned at the heat of it, licking what landed on her mouth, holding still so he could paint the rest across her skin. Pulse after pulse marked her until he was spent and shaking.

She smiled, satisfied and wrecked, and leaned in to lick the last drops from the head of his cock, slow and thorough, cleaning him with her tongue while she looked up at him. Then she rose on slightly unsteady legs, tucked her breasts back into the dress, smoothed the silk over her hips, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. A faint shine remained on her chest where the neckline hid it. She checked her hair in the dark window, pinned the worst of it, and turned to him with one last sultry look, promise written all over her face.

"Go back in a minute," she said softly. "I'll already be there."

She unlocked the door and slipped into the corridor, heels a little less steady than when she had left the party, hunger finally fed and already kindling again. Franklin fastened his pants, straightened his jacket, and waited, pulse still loud in his ears. When he returned to the lights and the music, Fiona stood near the buffet with a fresh glass of club soda, speaking easily to a colleague, the picture of a composed secretary at a Christmas party. Fabian was still laughing across the room. Franklin took a place near the windows. Their eyes met through the crowd, hungry as ever, and she let the corner of her mouth curve before she looked away.

A minute later she passed close enough that only he could hear her.

"Next time I look at you like that," she murmured, "are you going to make me wait until the party's half over?"