The Lake House Detour

"Jesus, you're driving like my grandmother," Mara snapped, her fingers digging into the dashboard. "Pull over. Now."

I glanced at her—my new boss, all sharp cheekbones and sharper tongue—and did what she said. The rented sedan crunched onto the gravel shoulder, the lake glinting through the pines beyond the windshield. She'd been a nightmare all day: barking orders about spreadsheets, rolling her eyes at my questions. But the way she'd crossed her legs in the passenger seat, the hem of her pencil skirt riding up her thighs... that wasn't office tension. That was something else.

"You know I can't just—"

"Shut up, Danny." She unbuckled, twisted toward me. Her hand landed on my thigh, hot through the denim. "You've been staring at my tits since the office. Don't think I didn't notice."

My cock twitched. She was right; I had been. "Mara, you're my boss—"

"Tonight I'm not your boss." She leaned in, breath warm against my ear. "The lake house is mine for the weekend. No email, no meetings. Just me and you and that fucking bulge you've been hiding all day."

She found the zipper before I could argue. Her fingers worked it down, dipped into my boxers, wrapped around my hard length. I groaned, head falling back against the seat.

"God, you're thick," she whispered, stroking slow. "I bet you fuck like you drive. Too fast. No sense of direction."

"Try me."

She laughed—low, dirty—then slid out of the car. The gravel crunched under her heels as she walked around to my door, yanked it open.

"Out. Take me inside."

The lake house was all cedar and glass, the last light bleeding orange across the water. She didn't bother with lights. Just backed me against the kitchen island, her skirt bunched around her waist, her panties a scrap of black lace she tore aside with one tug.

"Fuck me, Danny. Right here."

I lifted her onto the counter. Her legs wrapped around my hips, heels digging into my ass. I found her soaked—slick, hot, ready—and drove in with one brutal thrust.

"Yes—fuck—" Her nails raked my shoulders through my shirt. "That's it. Harder."

I fucked her standing, gripping her hips so tight I knew I'd leave bruises. The counter rattled against the cabinets. She threw her head back, mouth open, tits bouncing against the thin silk of her blouse. I buried my face in her neck, tasting salt and sweat.

"Don't stop," she gasped. "Don't you fucking stop."

I didn't. I lifted her off the counter, spun her around, bent her over the kitchen table. Her ass was pale and round in the dim light. I slapped it once—she moaned—and drove back in from behind.

"That's it," she panted, fingers scrabbling at the wood. "Use me. God, I've wanted this since I hired you."

I grabbed a fistful of her dark hair, pulled her head back. "Wanted what?"

"Wanted you to fuck me stupid. Right here. In my lake house."

I laughed breathless and slammed deeper. Her pussy clenched around me, wet and greedy. She was close—I could feel it in the shudder of her spine, the way her moans turned to keening whines.

"Come for me," I growled. "Come on my cock."

She did—with a cry that echoed off the glass, her whole body convulsing. I buried myself to the hilt, felt her tighten around me, and let go, pumping her full, hips stuttering as I emptied into her.

For a long moment, we just breathed. Then she straightened, smoothed her skirt with shaking hands.

"Coffee?" she said.

I laughed. "Sure."

Morning came with sun through the windows and the smell of grounds. She stood at the stove in an oversized shirt, nothing else, and slid a mug toward me. Her eyes caught mine—not cold, not sharp. Almost warm.

"Don't get used to this," she said, but her lips curved.

"Wouldn't dream of it, boss."

She sipped, watching me over the rim. "You're still a terrible driver."

"Maybe you should navigate next time."

She laughed, soft, and turned back to the coffee. Outside, the lake glittered, calm and bright.

CATEGORIES: [Hitchhiking, Boss, Lake House, Rough sex, Just the Two of Us]