I stepped out of Sable's office twenty-three minutes after I'd walked in, the door clicking shut behind me like the final punctuation on a sentence she was still trying to finish with her own trembling fingers.
The taste of her lingered on my tongue: salt-sweet skin, the faint copper where I'd nipped too hard, the thick, creamy slick that had soaked through black lace and painted my lower lip like gloss. My cock was still half-hard, aching against the seam of my slacks, the wet spot at the tip cooling in the air-conditioned hallway.
Sable was still in there, thighs spread over the arm of her chair, skirt rucked to her waist, pussy throbbing so hard I'd felt the pulse of it against my cheek even through the lace.
I'd left her with the taste of almost, her clit swollen and untouched beneath ruined La Perla, another fat bead of arousal sliding slow and obscene down the inside of her thigh to pool on the leather.
