Champagne in the Empty Office

The smell hit first: wet wool, lemon, champagne hissing from a bottle. In the empty office after hours, Mara held a sweating glass while Julian watched. The air conditioning had shut off, but the room still smelled of citrus and warm carpet.

"Go home," Mara said.

She popped the cork. Foam ran over her knuckles. She licked the salt from her wrist. He watched her.

"Champagne," Julian said. "For the artist and her model."

He took the glass, tipped it against his lips, and let a drop slide down his chin. Mara caught it before she could think. Her thumb brushed his mouth, and the touch went straight to her pussy.

"I can’t stop looking at your mouth," she said.

"Good. Look."

He kissed her, tasting of bubbles and bitterness. His hand slid under her blazer, palm hot on her ribs, fingers rough against her lace bra. She gasped. Her mouth watered. The bubbles were sharp on her tongue.

"You’re shaking," he said.

"Champagne."

"Fuck champagne."

His mouth moved to her throat, sucking until she whimpered. His cock pressed through his trousers against her thigh, thick and hard. Her clit ached.

"Office," Julian breathed.

"Office."

He pinned her against the glass wall. City lights smeared behind her. His hand went down her back, over her ass, pushing her skirt up.

"Julian—"

"I know." His palm was wet, champagne and her own slickness. His fingers slid over her pussy, circling her clit. She shivered when his breath hit the wet spot.

"Don’t—"

"Don’t what?"

"Stop."

His fingers pressed inside. She bit her lip, tasting blood. He pumped two fingers into her, curling them, thumb rubbing her clit. Her thighs trembled. The carpet smelled of dust and cologne. She could feel the wet sound of it, obscene and sweet.

"So wet for me."

He kissed the words away. His fingers went faster, rougher, until her back bowed and a small, filthy sound came out of her. He didn’t let her come. He spun her around.

He undid his belt. His cock sprang free, flushed and heavy. Mara swallowed.

She pushed him onto the conference table. "Get on the table."

Mara climbed over him, skirt bunched around her waist, and sank onto his cock. The stretch was hot and shocking, a fullness that made her eyes sting.

"Fuck, Mara."

She rode him slow at first, kissing his jaw. Her breasts swayed. He gripped her hips, thumb digging into her skin.

He splashed champagne over his cock, over her thighs. She laughed.

She came before she was ready, clit sparking, inner walls clamping around him. He shouted, then flipped her onto the table.

He spread her thighs and drove into her, deep and brutal. The bottle knocked over, leaking across the wood. Her legs shook around him. His mouth found hers, tongue sliding against hers while his hips pistoned. The table creaked. Papers slid. She grabbed his hair. The wood was cold against her back.

"Come," she begged. "Come inside me."

He groaned, hips stuttering, and buried himself to the hilt. She felt the hot pulse of his cum flooding her pussy, thick and endless. He came again, forehead pressed to hers. He held her tight, like he didn’t trust gravity.

After, they lay tangled on the table, sticky with champagne. He wiped her cheek. The office was too bright, too quiet.

"Sorry," he said.

"Don’t. You’re the artist. I’m supposed to be the model."

Mara kissed him softly. "You were good at being looked at."

"Stay."

"Until the champagne runs out."

It already had. But the taste stayed.