La Regla del Chalet

The fire had burned down to embers, and the only sound was the wind clawing at the windows of the chalet. Elena Marchetti, my boss of exactly three weeks, stood by the glass with a glass of red in her hand, and the snowlight made her look like something carved. I was twenty-six, new, and I'd already learned that Elena didn't smile at work — she evaluated.

"You're staring, Daniel."

"I'm... looking at the storm."

"Mm." She turned. Her blouse was unbuttoned one button past professional, and she knew it. "There's no HR up here. No cameras. No witnesses."

I set my glass down because my hand had started to shake. "Are you testing me?"

"I'm firing a warning shot." She crossed the room slowly. "I've wanted you since your interview. That's a problem for me. So we're going to solve it tonight, and tomorrow you'll still call me Ms. Marchetti."

The kiss wasn't gentle. She grabbed my collar and pulled me down, and her mouth tasted of wine and cold air, and her tongue was already past my teeth before I caught up.

"Bedroom," she breathed against my jaw. "Now."

I got her blouse off on the stairs. She got my belt off against the doorframe. By the time we hit the bed she was down to black lace, and I was hard enough to ache, and she looked at my cock like she was approving a budget.

"Bigger than I expected," she said. "Good."

"Elena—"

"Ms. Marchetti. In here."

She pushed me flat and climbed over me, and I got my first real taste of her — my mouth on her throat, her collarbone, then lower, pulling a nipple between my lips until she hissed through her teeth. My fingers found her through the lace, soaked already, and she ground down onto my hand with a low sound that went straight to my spine.

"Don't tease," she said. "I don't promote men who tease."

I hooked the lace aside and pushed two fingers into her. She was tight and wet and hot, and she rode my hand with her head thrown back, one hand braced on my chest, nails biting in. "There. Right there. Don't you dare stop."

I didn't. I curled my fingers and worked her clit with my thumb until her thighs started to tremble and her breathing broke into short, sharp pieces.

"Fuck," she whispered. "Okay. Okay, enough."

She shoved me onto my back, straddled me, and sank down onto my cock in one slow, deliberate drop. We both groaned. She was so tight it bordered on pain, and she sat there for a second, breathing, adjusting, her palms flat on my chest.

"Look at me," she said. "Not the ceiling. Me."

I looked. She started to move — slow at first, grinding, then faster, her tits bouncing with each stroke, her mouth open. I grabbed her hips and drove up into her and she gasped and slapped my chest.

"Harder," she said. "I'm not made of glass."

So I fucked her harder, and she took it, her wetness loud in the quiet room, her hair coming loose from its clip. I flipped us without pulling out, pinned her wrists above her head, and drove deep.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes — there — don't you stop, Daniel—"

"Say my name again."

"Daniel. Fuck. Daniel—"

I felt her clench around me, a long shuddering orgasm that made her arch off the mattress, and I was right behind her, pulling out just in time to come across her stomach and tits, hot and messy, both of us gasping.

She laughed — actually laughed — and wiped a streak off her ribs with two fingers.

"Well," she said. "That's one performance review I won't have to write."

We slept tangled and woke to grey mountain light. She made coffee in my shirt, nothing else, and handed me a mug with that flat, evaluating look back on her face.

"Ms. Marchetti," I said, testing it.

"Daniel." She sipped. "The chalet's booked through Sunday."

I hid my grin in the cup. "And Monday?"

"Monday you're my employee." She turned toward the window, and I caught her smile in the reflection. "Try to keep up."