Chapter 33 #2
I had to leave before she got dressed and I notice right away that she’s wearing a steel-gray skirt suit with a white blouse that’s either bulletproof or just stretched to hell.
Stockings, too—black—with that lattice pattern she has to know is my weakness.
The heels are not tall, but they are sharp enough to puncture the tires of anyone in the building.
Little fuck-me heels. She’s got her hair up today, and even though we said we’d meet in her real office to avoid flirting and having sex, it’s all I can think of.
To be honest, she could wear granny clothes, and I would wanna fuck her.
She points to the leather visitor’s chair. “Sit. We have about forty minutes before anyone arrives and annoys the shit out of me, and I need to walk you through tomorrow’s gauntlet.”
“Bossy much, babe?”
She looks up from her computer. “Colton. Just try to be professional for forty minutes, okay?”
I sit. The chair is exactly as uncomfortable as I remember, designed to keep clients from ever relaxing enough to make themselves at home.
She’s marking up a printout—my ex-wife’s latest affidavit. I recognize the font before I even see Mira’s name at the top. The whole page is redlined, like a murder scene but with better grammar.
“You’ve read this?” Jenna asks, finally glancing up.
I shake my head. “Do I want to?”
“Not if you value your blood pressure. Your ex’s lawyer is a sociopath.” She tosses the papers at me, and they arc through the air before landing perfectly square on the edge of the desk. “They’re doubling down on the child endangerment angle. Of course they saw the videos of you punching Houston.”
“My ex and her lawyer are psychopaths,” I say.
Jenna doesn’t flinch. “It’s not about the truth; it’s about the story.
Let me show you something.” She reaches for a folder and flips it open, revealing a lineup of photos—all of Livy.
Some at my apartment, some at games, some with my hands on her shoulders—evidence that I can keep her alive and occasionally even happy.
“This is the narrative we want. Involved, nurturing, a counter to her claim you’re just a sperm donor with a trophy case. ”
I pick up one of the photos and study it.
Livy has a mouthful of a sandwich and her eyes are fixed on something just out of frame—probably Jenna herself, because it was taken when we ate pizza after our last game.
There’s a smear of tomato sauce on her chin.
The way she’s looking at the camera, she almost looks proud.
I feel that kick in the chest that happens when you see your own kid being even cuter than you remember.
Jenna reaches for a highlighter, and her sleeve rides up her forearm, showing a cluster of those freckles I love so much.
I once kissed every single one of them. She starts laying out the agenda for tomorrow, talking fast and dry like she’s been rehearsing her arguments in the shower.
I try to listen, but the rhythm of her voice puts me in a trance, and I start watching the way her red lips move.
“Are you even listening?” she asks, looking up, green eyes slicing through the fog in my head.
“Like my life depends on it,” I say.
She looks at me for a second and I blow her a kiss.
She smiles but goes back to the document and starts reading aloud, putting on a cartoonishly nasal version of my ex-wife’s voice.
I think we did a great job at planning tomorrow’s hearing.
The Child Services already said that Livy’s words weigh the most and each time they checked on us, we presented the perfect family life and with Jenna being my legal wife, my ex had nothing against me.
Okay maybe that little fight but come on… it’s Hockey not Badminton.
Once Jenna finishes, there’s a silence. It lasts just long enough to feel intimate, which is always dangerous with my wife. She stacks the papers neatly and leans back, folding her arms.
“Anything else?” I ask, and she gives me a look that could mean literally anything.
She uncrosses her legs, and for a second her skirt hikes up enough to show the full pattern on her stockings. I swallow hard. Dear God.
“That’s all for now,” she says, but she doesn’t reach for another file. She just sits there, fingers drumming on the desk.
I look at her and she looks at me. It’s not a standoff, exactly, but it kind of has that flavor.
I can’t remember the last time a woman held my attention for more than ten seconds without me undressing her in my head.
With Jenna, I’m undressing her and also waiting for her to punch me in the face, and honestly, I don’t know which one I want more.
I know she has more work to do because of my stupid outburst on the ice.
But if I can save a friend, I do it. That’s just the way I am.
I’m about to stand up when she slides off her chair and perches herself on the edge of her desk. The move is so fluid it’s almost choreographed, like she’s rehearsed it a hundred times. Her skirt rides up even higher, and she smooths it down with both palms, but only just.
She looks down at her own knees, then back at me.
“You know what I hate about you?” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
“Only one thing?”
“I hate that you never act sorry about anything. Not in high school, not now. Even when you’re the one who made me work all night.”
I feel my stomach tighten. “I don’t do apologies well.”
“I know.” She tilts her head, hair slipping out of the bun.
“But sometimes you should. I’ know a way or two you could apologize for making me worry about you and for working harder than I should.
” And just like that she presses a button on her desk, and I hear the door’s automatic shut.
Her office is frosted glass and I know no one can see us.
I stand up, and walk to her side of the desk. I’m towering over her, but somehow it feels like she’s got all the leverage. I rest my hands on the desk on either side of her hips. The papers crinkle under my palms. She doesn’t move, just watches me like I’m an interesting exhibit at a zoo.
“I know my wife’s a naughty little brat, but are you sure? It’s your office…” I’d be lying if I said that just the thought of fucking her on her desk doesn’t make my horny dick twitch.
“Well then try to not make me scream too loud,” she says with that flirty grin of hers that almost makes me come in my pants.
I kiss her. She tastes like espresso and wintergreen. Her hands grab the front of my shirt, like she’s trying to keep from falling, but she’s the one pulling me closer.
The first time I touch her leg, she shudders, remembering what I can do to her. I drag my thumb along the inside of her thigh, feeling the silk of her stockings and the warmth underneath. She huffs out a laugh into my mouth, like she’s surprised I have the self-control.
“You knew my stockings weakness,” I say, biting into her neck.
“Of course.”
“Well, if that doesn’t sound like a little punishment is needed.”
“What do you m—” It’s all she can say because in the next minute I am the one sitting on her desk with her naked ass on my lap and I slap it. Playfully.
“If that’s not my little lawyer at my mercy.”
She’s wearing that lacy shit underneath. I should’ve known. She planned this and just the realization makes my dick so hard it hurts against the seam of my pants.
I take a second to just look at her ass, those round cups, the black string tanga that vanishes in the middle of her crease. I squeeze her round cheeks and cup them. God, her ass is just perfection.
“Since you’re the one being all filthy and kinky, I think you need to apologize first.”
In one swift motion, I pull her down to her knees. She drops, not gracefully like some demure princess—no, she goes down like a sinner in church, and I can’t get enough of the sight. I jump down on her chair, bringing her closer to my throbbing dick.
Like the good girl she is, she’s already scrambling at my belt. Her lips are parted just enough to tease me with the wet heat inside. My cock springs free, thick and flushed, veins pulsing under smooth skin like it’s begging for her mouth.
She doesn’t make me wait. Thank fuck.
Her tongue flicks out first—just a lazy, teasing swipe along the underside, from base to tip, savoring the way I twitch against her lips.
Then she takes me in, slow but with full force, her mouth a velvet vice as she swallows my dick inch by inch.
Fuck, she is a weapon. A ragged groan escapes my throat, fingers tangling in her hair, an instinctive urge to push her deeper, but I know she doesn’t need the help.
She’s in complete control, and I can feel it.
Her lips stretch around me, slick with spit, pulling back only to sink down again, deeper this time, her throat flutters as she takes me to the hilt.
My hips jerk involuntarily—damn, I can feel myself fighting the urge to just ram myself down her throat, but she holds me there, her nose pressed against my stomach, eyes watering slightly as she swallows around me.
I take the sight in, wanting to never ever forget this.
And then she moves. Her head bobs, slow at first, then faster, her tongue swirling around the head every time she pulls back.
When her fingers work my balls with just the right pressure my thighs tremble.
The sounds are filthy—wet, sloppy suction, followed by the occasional choked gasp when she deep-throats me just right.
I never want to be somewhere else. This. Just this. And make it forever.
Then she arches her back, hands flat against my stomach, nails digging in like she is trying to anchor herself.
She bites my cock, just a bit, but enough that I want to shout from the rooftop.
I want to laugh, but it’s impossible with the blood pounding in my ears.
She isn’t just sucking me off—she is worshipping my dick, her lips a sinful altar, her tongue a devil’s plaything.
And when my breath hitches, when my hips shudder, when she feels my cock pulse hot and thick down her.
My wife swallows every. Last. Drop. And I swear, if I weren’t already married to her, I’d hit the floor right now and beg her to become my wife.
Groaning, I watch her licking her lips like it’s dessert.
That’s enough for me to be hard again.
I pull her up and the minute she stands, I push her against the desk. One hand on her clit and my other already at my revived hard on.
“Don’t be gentle,” she says, and that was all I needed to hear.
We fuck like we are in competition.
Every thrust feels like a point scored, every gasp, a concession.
She starts moving her hips in a counter-rhythm, rubbing her clit against my hand while I fuck her from behind. The desk creaks under us, the glass groaning with every thrust but neither of us cares. It’s way too hot.
I knock her legal pad to the floor but again, neither of us cares.
“You’re going to get me disbarred,” she whispers, and then she clamps down around me, hard.
I feel her start to shake, and it sends me over the edge.
“No one’s here. That’s why you wanted me to come in so early, to make you come, just like the good girl you are.”
I hear her gasp—pant even.
She’s close.
She makes that little sound again and I whisper, “Come for me, Jenna baby.”
I finish with her name in my mouth, not even realizing I said it until she shudders at the same time.
I collapse a little, feeling it pump and pump and pump. I rest on her back for a while, kissing it, kissing her neck. Heaven. This is heaven.
She hands me a tissue, and I wipe us both clean.
After, we look at each other. She’s still on the desk, skirt rucked up around her waist, stockings shredded at the knee. I’m standing between her legs, forehead against hers, breathing like I just played a double overtime.
I kiss her then. Soft and so full of awe. Then a forehead kiss.
She pulls away first, fixing her skirt. “You can’t tell anyone about us having sex in my office, okay?” she says.
“Not even under subpoena?” I joke, and she snorts. I flick her nose and add, “Why would I? This is just my memory to keep.”