The Last Sketch

My hands were still shaking from the coffee when I locked the office door behind me. The janitor had already come and gone, leaving that lemony chemical smell that always made me feel like I was trespassing. I told myself it was just about the light. The floor-to-ceiling windows faced west, and at seven o'clock the sunset spilled across the empty desks like liquid gold.

"Ready when you are," Leo said, and his voice did something to my spine that had nothing to do with the caffeine.

I'd been sketching him for three weeks now. Every Tuesday and Thursday, the same conference room, the same pretense: figure study, professional distance, keep your eyes on the lines not the man. But tonight was different. Tonight I'd asked him to stay late. Tonight I'd locked the door.

"Actually," I said, dropping my sketchbook on the table, "I want to try something new."

Leo raised an eyebrow. He was already shirtless—that was our routine. But something in my tone made him pause, made him look at me differently. "What kind of something?"

"The kind where you take your jeans off too."

The silence stretched between us, electric. Leo's jaw worked for a second, and then he smiled, slow and dangerous, and reached for his belt. The clink of the buckle was obscenely loud in the empty office. I watched his fingers work the button, watched the zipper descend tooth by tooth, and my mouth went dry.

He stepped out of his jeans wearing nothing underneath. His cock was already half-hard, thick and heavy against his thigh. He didn't say anything. Just stood there, letting me look, letting me want.

"Now what?" he asked, his voice low.

"Now you sit." I pointed at the big leather chair at the head of the conference table. "And I tell you exactly what to do."

He sat. The chair creaked under him. His cock was fully hard now, curving up toward his stomach, and I couldn't stop staring at it. At the way the tip was flushed dark red, at the bead of moisture already gathering there.

I walked around the table slowly, dragging my fingers across the polished surface. When I reached him, I didn't kneel. I climbed into his lap, straddling him, feeling the heat of him through my thin summer dress.

"Tonight," I said, "you're not my model. You're my canvas."

His hands came up to my hips, squeezing. "And what are you going to do with your canvas?"

I reached down between us, wrapping my fingers around his cock. He was hot and smooth, and I could feel every vein pulsing under my palm. I stroked him slowly, deliberately, watching his eyes go dark.

"First," I said, "I'm going to paint you."

I shifted, pressing the soaked crotch of my panties against the length of him. The friction made us both gasp. I ground against him, slow circles, feeling him slide against my clit through the thin fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're so wet."

"You did this to me." I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear. "Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Standing there with your perfect body while I pretended to care about shading and proportion."

"I know." His voice was rough. "I used to watch you watching me. Wondering when you'd crack."

"I'm cracking now."

I pulled my dress over my head in one motion, tossing it aside. I wasn't wearing a bra. His hands found my tits immediately, thumbs circling my nipples until they were hard peaks. I moaned, arching into his touch.

"Take off your panties," he said.

"Make me."

He did. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and tore them off me, the sound of ripping fabric sharp in the quiet room. Then his hands were on my ass, lifting me, positioning me over his cock.

"Ready?"

"God, yes."

He lowered me onto him, and I couldn't help the cry that escaped me. He was so thick, so deep, and I felt myself stretch around him, felt every inch as he filled me completely. For a moment neither of us moved. Just breathing, just feeling, connected in the empty office as the last light faded outside.

Then I started to ride him.

Slow at first, a gentle rock that made us both groan. His hands were on my hips, guiding me, and I could feel every ridge of him inside me, could feel the way my pussy clenched around him. I leaned back, bracing my hands on his thighs, and changed the angle, and suddenly he hit that spot inside me that made my vision blur.

"Right there," I gasped. "Don't stop."

He didn't. He started thrusting up into me, matching my rhythm, and the sound of our bodies slapping together filled the room. I was losing myself in it, in the feel of him, in the way his cock was stretching me so deliciously full.

"Look at me," he commanded.

I did. His eyes were black with desire, his lips parted. He looked like a man about to lose control, and that was exactly what I wanted.

"I'm close," I whispered.

"Me too. Don't hold back."

He grabbed my ass with both hands and started pounding into me, hard and fast, and I was gone. The orgasm crashed over me like a wave, and I screamed his name as my pussy clenched around him, milking him. He followed a second later, buried deep inside me, and I felt his cock pulse as he came, hot and thick.

We collapsed together, breathing hard, slick with sweat. The office was dark now except for the glow of the city outside. Leo's fingers traced lazy patterns on my back.

"So," he said, his voice hoarse, "same time Thursday?"

I laughed against his chest. "Same time. But next time I'm bringing my camera."