El Reporte Nocturno

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Mr. Cole.”

Her voice was ice water down my spine. I looked up from the spreadsheet, and Lena Voss was standing in the doorway of the hotel suite’s makeshift office, one hand on her hip, the other holding a half-empty glass of red wine. She’d let her hair down from the severe bun she wore at the office, and it fell in dark waves past her shoulders. The tailored blazer was gone, replaced by a simple black silk camisole that clung to the sharp curves of her body.

“Sorry?” I managed.

“The Q3 projections,” she said, stepping closer. The carpet swallowed the sound of her heels. “They’re off by nearly twelve percent. I don’t pay you to be sorry, I pay you to be precise.” She set the glass down on the mahogany desk beside my laptop, leaning over just enough for me to catch the scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral, with a hint of sweat underneath. “We have the Meridian meeting at nine tomorrow. This needs to be flawless.”

“I can fix it.”

“I know you can.” Her eyes held mine, and there it was—that tension that had been building since I’d walked into her office two weeks ago. The way her gaze lingered a second too long. The way her hand brushed mine when she handed me files. The way she’d announced this trip with just the two of us, saying we needed to “align our strategy.”

She straightened up, but didn't step back. “It’s late. Everyone else is asleep. It’s just you, me, and this report.”

I could feel the heat radiating off her body. “Then maybe we should work faster.”

“Maybe,” she said, and there was a smile playing at the corner of her lips. “Or maybe we should take a break.”

She reached out and undid the top button of my shirt. Then the second. Her fingers were cool against my chest, and I sucked in a breath.

“Lena…”

“Shh.” She pushed me back against the chair, then swung her leg over to straddle my lap. The silk of her camisole was whisper-thin, and I could feel the warmth of her skin through it, the press of her thighs around mine. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the day you walked in. That stupid, charming smile. The way you say ‘yes, ma’am’ like you mean it.”

“I do mean it,” I said, my hands finding her hips. She was so light, so strong.

“I know.” She ground down against me, and I felt myself harden under the pressure of her. “But right now, I don’t want you to be polite. I want you to fuck me like you’ve been thinking about it.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I slid my hands up her thighs, under the hem of her skirt, and found that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. She was already wet, slick and hot against my fingers.

“Fuck,” I breathed.

“Language,” she chided, but her voice was thick with arousal. She reached between us, unzipped my pants, and freed my cock. Her fingers wrapped around it, stroking once, twice, and then she was positioning herself, guiding me to her entrance.

She sank down onto me in one slow, agonizing motion. Her head fell back, and she let out a low, guttural moan that went straight through me. I was buried inside her to the hilt, and she was so tight, so wet, so perfectly hot.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “You feel even better than I imagined.”

I gripped her hips, holding her still for a moment. The only sound in the room was her ragged breathing and the hum of the air conditioning. I could feel her inner walls clenching around me, pulsing, greedy.

“Move,” she commanded.

I did. I thrust up into her, and she met me halfway, a rhythm building fast and frantic. Her nails dug into my shoulders through the fabric of my shirt. The chair creaked beneath us.

“Yes,” she hissed. “Just like that. Don’t you dare stop.”

I didn’t. I fucked her hard, driving into her again and again. Her breasts bounced against the silk of her camisole, her nipples hard and visible. She was so gorgeous like this—all her control stripped away, replaced by raw, animal need.

“I want to feel you,” she panted, leaning forward, her forehead against mine. “I want to feel you come inside me.”

Her words sent a jolt through me. She rode me faster, her movements frantic, her breath coming in sharp gasps. I could feel my own climax building, coiling tight in my gut.

“Lena, I’m close.”

“Me too,” she said, her voice breaking. “Don’t hold back. Give it to me.”

I slammed up into her one last time as we both came apart. She cried out, her body shuddering above me, and I buried my face in her neck, groaning as I spilled into her. We stayed like that for a long moment, clinging to each other, our hearts pounding in the quiet of the hotel suite.

Finally, she lifted her head and looked at me. Her lipstick was smeared, her hair a mess. She looked utterly devastating.

“Well,” she said, her voice hoarse. “That was… efficient.”

I laughed, breathless. “I aim to please.”

She leaned in and kissed me, soft and slow, a stark contrast to the desperate passion of moments before. Then she pulled back, a wicked glint in her eye.

“Now fix the report,” she said, and I could feel her shift, her inner muscles clenching around me once more. “We have a long night ahead.”