Georgia Miller stood in the doorway of Gil Timmis’s home office, her hip cocked against the frame, watching him work. He was on a call, his voice low and commanding, the kind of tone that made subordinates straighten their spines. His dark blue eyes flicked up to her, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth beneath that light brown stubble. He ran a hand over his partially balding head, a habit when he was distracted, and Georgia felt a familiar pull low in her belly.
She’d met Gil two years ago at a corporate retreat, him in his sharp, business-casual armor—tailored navy blazer, crisp white shirt, trousers that hinted at the power he wielded. He projected intimidation like a cologne, and she’d hated how much it turned her on. Now, with a blended family of Austin, Ginny, and Zion orbiting their lives, they’d carved out moments like this—stolen, charged, and filthy with promise.
He ended the call with a clipped “We’re done,” and tossed his earpiece onto the desk. “You’re a distraction, Georgia.”
“Good,” she said, stepping inside. She wore a simple sundress, thin straps, fabric that clung to her curves. She didn’t bother with a bra. His eyes tracked the sway of her breasts as she moved, and she saw his jaw tighten.
“Kids are out,” she said, stopping in front of his desk. “Austin’s at practice, Ginny and Zion are with my sister. We’ve got hours.”
Gil leaned back in his leather chair, the power dynamic shifting as he spread his knees slightly. “Lock the door.”
She did, the click loud in the quiet room. When she turned back, he’d already unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a chest dusted with brown hair, a silver chain glinting against his skin. He wasn’t ripped like a gym rat; he was solid, a man who commanded boardrooms and bedrooms with the same ruthless efficiency.
“Come here,” he said, and it wasn’t a request.
Georgia walked around the desk, and he pulled her onto his lap, her thighs straddling his. His hands slid up her dress, rough palms against her bare skin, and he groaned when he found her wet already. “No panties. You planned this.”
“I always plan for you,” she murmured, grinding down against the hard ridge in his trousers. His mouth found her neck, stubble scraping deliciously, and she gasped as his teeth grazed her pulse point. He sucked hard enough to leave a mark, and she dug her nails into his shoulders.
“I want to taste you,” he said, lifting her effortlessly onto the edge of the desk. Papers scattered, a pen rolled to the floor, but neither cared. He pushed her dress up to her waist, spread her legs wide, and dropped to his knees. His blue eyes locked on hers as he leaned in, and the first stroke of his tongue made her cry out.
Gil ate pussy like he negotiated contracts—thorough, relentless, and with a singular focus on the prize. He licked into her folds, flicked her clit, then sucked it until her thighs clamped around his head. His stubble burned her inner thighs, a raw counterpoint to the wet heat of his mouth. Georgia grabbed his head, fingers digging into his balding scalp, and rode his face.
“Fuck, Gil, right there,” she panted, and he hummed against her, the vibration pushing her over the edge. She came with a sharp cry, her body bowing off the desk, and he lapped up every drop before standing.
His mouth was slick with her, and he kissed her deep, letting her taste herself. “Now I’m going to fuck you,” he said against her lips, and she nodded, breathless.
He freed his cock, thick and straining, and she wrapped her hand around it, stroking the velvety skin. He hissed, thrusting into her grip, and she guided him to her entrance. He pushed in slow, an inch at a time, and she felt every ridge and vein as her pussy stretched to take him.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and she did, his dark blue eyes blazing with possession. He bottomed out, and they both groaned. Then he started to move, a deep, grinding rhythm that hit that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes.
“Harder,” she begged, and he obliged, slamming into her with a force that rattled the desk. The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room, wet and obscene. He grabbed her hips, angling her so he could go deeper, and she clutched the edge of the desk to keep from sliding off.
“You love my dick, don’t you?” he grunted, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Yes, fuck yes,” she moaned. “Fill me up.”
He pulled out suddenly, flipped her over so her chest pressed against the cool wood of the desk, and entered her from behind. This angle was deeper, more primal, and he fucked her with long, punishing strokes. His hand snaked around to rub her clit, and she shattered again, her pussy clenching around him.
“That’s it, milk my cock,” he growled, and the dirty talk sent her spiraling into a third orgasm. He followed her over the edge, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside her with a guttural roar. She felt the hot pulse of his cum, and it triggered another wave of pleasure that left her limp and trembling.
They stayed like that for a moment, him draped over her back, both panting. Then he pulled out, and she felt his release trickle down her thigh. He grabbed a tissue from the desk and cleaned her with surprising tenderness, then helped her stand.
“You’re a mess,” he said, smirking.
“Your mess,” she shot back, straightening her dress. She looked at the chaos of the office—papers strewn, a lamp knocked askew—and laughed.