you shook me all night long
sex on fire chapter one
requested by @whore-4-pedro (hope u enjoy lovely)
lived all my succession fantasies out writing this one icl. enjoy 🖤 check out my masterlist for more joel fun ‼️
pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader
summary: as joel miller's assistant, you're expected to meet all his needs. some are a little more personal than others
warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) creepy dude at the beginning, lotta teasing and touching, mentions of female masturbation, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, semi-public sex, daddy kink, age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), alcohol and drug use, cursing, low-key inappropriate work relationship (if bad then why sexy?)
word count: 7.8k
series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist
You grind your ass and Joel hums into your skin. He’s getting harder by the second, you’re getting wetter. It’s not enough, what you’re doing. You need more.
You lower your hand and cup him through his pants, taking hold of his bulge and massaging gently. His hips are moving, he’s rutting into your palm, both of you desperate to rid yourselves of the clothing separating your skin.
“I asked,” you breathe, “what’s next on the agenda?”
“Next,” Joel mumbles into your skin, “was thinkin’ I could bend you over this desk ‘n fuck you.”
It’s Friday night.
You only got home from work an hour and a half ago. Tired, hungry, sore eyes from staring at a screen all night, sore back from sitting hunched over all day. Dumped your bags at the door, ripped your clothes off by your bed, dove straight into the shower. You’d picked an outfit, curled your hair in record time, and even done your makeup before Deb called to say she was out front.
It was a ten-minute drive from your place to the hotel – it’s only a couple blocks from work. The cab driver made light conversation, talked about his daughter and her new puppy, and you both nodded and uhuhed in all the breaks in his sentences. Deb made some comment about it being easier if you’d just stayed at the office until the party, and you’d hummed in agreement, looking out the window at the regal hotel.
Truth be told, you’d rather be doing anything other than attending a work function. You’ve had a long week. A lot of meetings, paperwork, emails to be answered, and most of all, running around after your boss. It’s not all fun and games being Joel Miller’s assistant, regardless of the pay, or the view from your desk over to his.
Your head’s elsewhere when you waltz through the revolving door, heels clicking along the marble floor. The elevator – gold, by the way – slides open and you both step inside, hitting the highest button before you’re swept up twenty floors to the penthouse.
“Did you send those documents over to us yet?” Deb asks.
“Nope,” you reply, slipping out when the elevator dings. “Had to sit in on a meeting with Joel and take the fucking minutes, spent all night writing them up.”
“He won’t be pissed at you?”
“If he hadn’t insisted I was in there with him, you’d have your reports, wouldn’t you?”
She shrugs, agreeing.
“Anyway,” you continue, “I can take angry Joel. He doesn’t scare me.”
Deb chuckles as you shoulder the doors to the penthouse open.
It’s a moody dull, lit only by the lights lining the bar and small lamps decorating mahogany tables, sat next to deep green velvet couches. There are clusters of people everywhere you look; stood near shelves filled with leather-bound books, examining the view from the floor to ceiling windows, sprawled out over luxurious chairs with champagne flutes in their hands. There’s a tree in the middle of the room, branches decorated in blinking string lights reaching to a glass dome in the ceiling.
It's, like, sickeningly pretentious. You know it. Hell, you all know it. Still, in your little black dress, you strut over and take a champagne of your own, sipping on the fizzing drink with one elbow resting on the wooden bar.
“There’s my girl,” his voice coos over your shoulder. “Been watchin’ for you all night, took your time.”
You lean back, bored expression on your face.
Joel’s broad chest pulls on the white shirt he’s wearing, same one you just saw him in little over three hours ago, only without a tie; the top couple of buttons are undone to reveal his chest hair peeking through. You try not to let your eyes linger on him too long.
“You look fuckin’ ecstatic to be here.”
He leans against the bar next to you, arms crossed. When you don’t reply, he nudges you. Your champagne jolts in its glass.
“I always look like this. I’m always ecstatic to be everywhere.”
He smiles. “Why aren’t you mingling?”
“Don’t wanna.”
“’s a work event. That’s the whole point.”
“Then why are you over here talkin’ to me?”
His eyes flash across your lips, and you swear they drop for a nanosecond to your chest.
“Come on,” he says, taking your wrist in his huge hand, “some people you oughta meet.”
Joel ignores your sigh and leads you over onto a plush rug, sidling between knees to sit you down on the soft couch between himself and some bald dude in a jet blue suit, whose shirt is also undone, though much further than Joel’s. He has a chest like a hairless cat.
Cue Ball snakes an arm over the back of the couch; his fingers dance across your back. You shimmy a little closer to Joel and he notices instantly, jaw turning slowly to glance over. When he sees your knees angled toward him, seeking protection, he leans back and wraps his left arm around your shoulders, his right coming down to cup your knee.
“This,” he shakes your leg, left arm pulling you tighter against him, “is my wonderful assistant. My right-hand lady. Couldn’t do anything without her, could I?”
“Could wipe your own ass, that’s about it,” you mumble into your glass, and a roar of laughter sounds from your audience.
Joel, still leaning back, pulls his arm from you but keeps his shoulder firmly behind yours, making sure whatever the creep on your left tries, he’ll feel first. Your elbow rests in the crook of his, and you keep it there, quietly enjoying the intimacy of his body caging yours.
His left hand is settled on your thigh. You realize it after a swig of champagne, and start counting in your head how many seconds his fingers stay gripped on your skin.
He talks with his hands – always has. Walks around his office, ranting and raving sometimes, arms swinging around in the air while you take notes, or file your nails, or just watch until he’s done. For the next half hour, though, he only talks with his right hand. Only sips his beer with his right hand. Only scratches his beard, or pulls his phone from his pocket, or reaches up and passes you a second drink, and then a third, with his right hand.
You stay rigid, legs unmoving, eyes barely leaving his knuckles, locked tight around your thigh. There’s heat from his touch siphoning from his palm down through your skin, rippling like waves all through your body and pooling somewhere south of your belly button. No matter how hard you try, you can’t shake it. Can’t stop thinking about it. You barely notice when Cue Ball’s hand ghosts across your back a second time.
But Joel notices, straight away. He flashes the guy a look, and you swear he’s baring his teeth. Eyes locked on the blue suit like it’s a target, never blinking. He doesn’t say anything when his prey excuses himself to the bathroom, and you don’t turn to watch him go, but you do notice three other sharp-suited pricks stand and wander off in that direction after him.
Probably not a coincidence.
Joel still has a hold on your leg. Your flute is empty, and you lean forward to place it on the wooden table at your knees, beginning to stand.
His grip loosens, but he looks up at you as you tower over him.
“Cocktail,” you tell him with a sweet smile, and he nods, letting you go.
You know he’s watching you as you slink away. Is it the alcohol in your system, or something darker, that makes you sway your hips a little more for his benefit?
Deb’s over at the bar with Martha, another of Joel’s assistants. She’s around his age, worked for him much longer than you have, but when he hired you, you took on most of the groundwork. Following Joel’s orders– sorry, requests, organizing meetings, filing paperwork for him. Martha sits at a desk outside Joel’s office, answers the phone and directs anyone who happens to wander up to the top floor of the building.
Did I say directs? I meant strikes coldblooded fear within them and sends them back running the way they came, with just one look and a nod in the opposite direction.
Unless they’re there for a meeting with Joel, that is. And if they are, that’s where you come in. Good morning, Mr. Salazar, Mr. Miller will be right with you. This way, he’s just finishing up a call.
Martha’s a tough nut. But she likes you enough, so she smiles warmly as you approach.
“I’m hearing all about your note-taking this afternoon,” she hums when you hop up onto a barstool, catching the bartender’s eye. He trots over.
You sigh to Martha, eyes wide. “I didn’t leave until, like, eight. What the fuck’s that about? Can I just get a cosmopolitan, please?” you ask, and the bartender nods. He looks about fifteen.
Martha shakes her head, laughing. “He did it to me when I was first startin’ out, too. Told him to stick his minutes where the sun don’t shine.”
“I’ve been here three years,” you mutter, and Deb snorts.
“You’d think Joel would’ve changed his ways in the, what, seven decades since you started, Martha?”
It earns her a slap across the shoulder. You stifle your laugh behind your glass, thanking the teenager who served you it with a nod.
“Twenty years next March, actually,” Martha says.
“That so? D’you think he’ll get you anything for it?”
“If I’m lucky,” she sighs, eyes travelling up to the ceiling in thought, “a lunch break where he doesn’t bother me once.”
“Knowing Joel, that means a lunch break where he bothers you twice.”
You smile, glancing past the pretentious tree to where Joel is, and notice he’s already staring right back. A swarm of butterflies flutter around your stomach, dancing over the heat his handprint left within you. They only grow more violent when he stands and walks over, broad shoulders swaying, eyes flitting up and down your body.
You lean back, sitting up straight, eyeing him right back as he joins the three of you.
“Speak of the devil,” Martha says, and Joel chuckles in response, but his eyes never leave you.
“We were just talkin’ about Martha’s twenty years,” says Deb, winking.
He finally turns to answer her. “Oh, yeah? When’s that, then, old-timer?”
“Dirtball!” Martha yells, and Joel smirks. It goes straight to your core.
“How many Manhattans tonight, then, Deb?”
Deb holds her glass up. “I am on my second, and I will not be exceeding three. We don’t need a repeat of Christmas.”
“Aw,” Joel complains, tutting, “I liked hammered Deb.”
“That’s ‘cause you didn’t have to deal with hungover Deb,” you mutter, and she shoots you a look.
Joel smiles at you, takes a step closer as Deb and Martha begin comparing past hangovers. He leans forward, waves the fifteen-year-old down, and asks for a beer. As he leans back, you notice the weight of his wrist on your right hip. Nicely done.
“You know there are four guys in the bathroom doing coke?”
“I hope to God that’s all they’re doin’. I don’t need another orgyhappenin’ at one of these things.”
You giggle like a fucking schoolgirl. He looks pleased with himself, and you instantly regret it. You try to play it off by lifting your glass back to your lips.
Joel’s studying you, though, mapping every inch of your face. Watching your mouth as it curves around the shape of the glass, your tongue licking your lips after your sip. He tracks the glass as you set it back down on the bar, then his eyes trail along your arm to your dress, and your stomach leaps.
He looks so fucking good, it sends another wave of energy through your body. Dark hair lined with grey, beard much the same. Strong jaw, lips wetting with every sip of beer he takes, dark eyes flitting across yours, holding your stare long enough to melt you a little, and then dipping just before you can read the thoughts behind them.
His skin a little tanned, his neck thick with muscle. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, you’re so close. Close enough that you could lean up, part your lips and sink your teeth under his ear, suck a mark there, taste him on your tongue.
Your head cocks after a few minutes silence, just the two of you enjoying the fucking look of each other. You lean a little against his arm, steady around your back.
“I hate work parties,” you sigh.
Joel scoffs. “Free alcohol, nice penthouse. Cocaine, if you want it. What’s not to like?”
You narrow your eyes and he laughs for real.
“I hate ‘em, too, baby. Gotta keep up appearances, though, don’t we?”
Baby. This fucker.
“Do we?” you squeak, after a few seconds dazed.
He shrugs. “’s what I hear.”
He’s so close you can smell the beer on his tongue. It makes your heart quicken, your body hum with energy. That could just be the alcohol in your system, though, right?
Who are you kidding? It’s fucking Joel doing it to you.
You have no idea how long he was here before you arrived. He left the office around six, and you presumed he’d come straight here to check everything was in order before guests started arriving. How many beers has he had? Is he just drunk, feeling up on you with liquid courage?
You’re mulling over the thought when a pair of hands clamp down on Joel’s shoulders and his hold on your waist loosens. He mumbles an apology as he’s dragged away by a couple of loose-collared, baggy-suit drunks. You shake your head in response, trying to be cool – It’s all good, man. I’m good. I’m not totally fawning over you right now, no way.
Deb swings her barstool around when she notices you’re on your own, inviting you back into their conversation. Thirty seconds into talking about childhood pets, you’re wishing Joel was back around you, igniting your skin and peaking your adrenaline. Max the Pomeranian is a nice picture; Joel’s nicer.
Martha says something with a hand motion, and Deb nods, elbow knocking into yours.
“What?”
She nods toward the balcony. “We’re headin’ out for a smoke, you comin’?”
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll save your seats.”
They nod and wander off between a crowd, swallowed up by bodies in the direction of the open sliding doors, the blinking lights of the skyline ahead.
You’re twirling the base of your empty glass around on its napkin when you feel that same heat behind you again, and a hand rests on the small of your back.
“Coat,” Joel mutters, pulling his suit jacket on.
“Huh?”
“Get your coat. Everyone’s headin’ across the street.”
“Why is everyone heading across the street?”
He shrugs. “Afterparty, I guess.”
“It’s a work function. It’s like–” you check your phone, “–oh, fuck, it’s almost midnight.” You screw your face up, watching as the small crowd slowly melts away through the suite doors.
“I know. I throw a good party, right?”
“So good, people are leaving it.”
He tuts. “Coat. Now.”
“I didn’t bring one.”
“You didn’t bring a coat?”
“You told me the party was here. I didn’t think we’d be walking all over town.”
“’s not all over town, baby,” Joel murmurs with a sigh. “Here.”
He peels the jacket off his shoulders and you hold a hand out to stop him.
“Joel, it’s fine, it’s–”
“Quit moanin’,” he groans as he throws it over your shoulders. He scoops your hair and pulls it softly out from under the collar. “Alright? C’mon.”
He takes your hand and leads you past some stragglers down the hall toward the elevator, where a group are waiting for the doors to open.
“Tight squeeze, Miller,” some dude chuckles as you follow Joel in, his hand still gripping yours.
He turns, backing into the corner, pulling you with him until your back is flush against his chest.
His hands drop to your hips. You swallow back a scream.
One of the accountants is stood in front of your – Harriet? Helen? Something beginning with H – anyway, she keeps knocking back into you, pushed by the sway of the packed elevator. It means you knock a little into Joel, and feel his chin on the crown of your head.
You turn ever so slightly to mumble an apology to him, but when you feel his breath on the shell of your ear, your words die in your throat.
“Hazel?” – That’s her fucking name – Joel reaches around you to tap her shoulder, and her bobbed haircut swings when she turns. “Did you get those balance sheets yet?”
“Not yet, Joel,” she tells him, and your face prickles with heat.
“No? That’s weird.” Joel’s grip tightens on your hips, his mouth dangerously close to your ear. In a low whisper, only to you, he says, “Thought I asked to have ‘em sent over by this afternoon.”
You muster up the courage to reply with a deep breath. From the corner of your mouth, through gritted teeth, you tell him, “That was before you forced me to sit in on a buyers’ meeting.”
You feel his chest rumble between your shoulder blades as he laughs. The elevator shudders to a stop and the doors slide open; the crowd spills out.
You step forward, ahead of Joel, and make it maybe three steps before he’s back on you, an arm draped over your shoulders. You reach up and take his hand, leaning against his strong torso to let him guide you toward the exit.
No idea what makes you do it. Maybe you’re drunk. Maybe not only on alcohol.
You’re the last of the pack, stumbling over air across the gleaming floor toward the revolving door, which Joel pushes open for you. The cool night breeze hits you as you slip out.
The crowd ahead are rushing across the street, yelling and whooping as they go. It’s juvenile, a little cringe. A bunch of rich corporates skipping across the street toward cheap alcohol and peanuts. You’d care more about the way it looks if you were sober.
Joel’s hand finds yours again and he’s leading you down the steps, cutting between parked cars toward the dive bar. You link your other arm around his elbow and he glances down, noting it. You wish the walk was longer.
A flickering fluorescent light drowns you both in a red glow, and Joel pushes the doors open. The place is flooded with half of your party, drowning booths, leaning against the bar, dancing in any open floorspace.
The floor is sticky, the bar dim. Joel takes you over to the same crowd he introduced you to earlier, and makes space for you to sit. You slide along the booth to the wall and he follows, squeezing up to you to let two more in after him.
“Beers?” a guy with a loose tie asks, to a chorus of yeses and a show of thumbs up. Mitch? Mark?
You tug Joel’s jacket from your shoulders – the movement nudges him and he turns to lift it from your back and tuck it behind you, brushing the hair off your shoulders. You smile in thanks, and his hand falls back onto your leg.
It takes you a few minutes to notice it this time. The gentle squeeze of his fingers around your thigh, the way it slowly bumps up each time he adjusts in his seat or shifts to allow space for someone else to join the booth.
His hand moves slowly, dangerously close to pulling your skirt up with it. Mitch or Mark returns with your beers and you take a massive swig, nerves and anticipation and fucking need for Joel to keep doing what he’s doing, taking over.
Under lights blurred by the alcohol in your system, the table buzzes with energy and chatter and laughter. There are posters and stickers all over the walls, graffiti of names and initials, numbers and dates scored into the walls. Joel traces them with his finger and you laugh at some of the messages.
“Lydia and Jack,” you mumble, “12-24-19. Wonder what happened then.”
“Bathroom sex,” Joel replies, eyes scanning the wall.
You scoff, beer to your lips. “On Christmas Eve?”
He nods, like it’s obvious. “Magical time ‘n all.”
You look past him with a smile to the opposite side of the bar where, through silhouetted bodies, you notice a jukebox.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your eyes widen, your mouth agape.
Joel follows your eyeline and then twists back around. “C’mon,” he says, taking your hand and motioning for the others to let you by. He drags you over to the machine, lighting your faces up in yellow light, and your drunk eyes scan the screen.
“Nope." You swipe Joel’s hand away right before he can pick some Pet Shop Boys song.
“Really?”
“Good, but not the vibe,” you tell him, and budge him out of the way with your hip. He sways off, laughing, and leans a palm against the jukebox, his chest on your back for the second time tonight. As your tired eyes scan the songs, Joel’s chin rests on your shoulder.
He’s judging every fucking song you linger on. “Queen? Little before your time.”
“Dick.”
“Fleetwood Mac. Definitely before your time.”
“The entire fucking jukebox is before my time, dude. Shut up. These are good songs.”
You settle on a track and turn to face him. He has you almost fucking pressed against the box.
“Change, please.”
“Oh, I’m payin’, am I?”
“Mhm. Your work party, your wallet.”
He sighs and pushes a fist into his pocket for coins, tossing a quarter into your outstretched palm. You turn back and select your song, put the money in, and the old machine barks out the intro.
Joel sighs, shaking his head. “AC/DC? That’s your thing?”
“It’s not yours?” You’re taking him by the hand between bodies, swaying as you go.
He’s laughing, following you until you’re in the middle of the cramped bar, chest to chest, moving together. His hands find your waist again and this time you don’t even flinch; your fingers trail up his shirt, across his chest, settle on his collar.
You fucking swear he’s leaning in, each beat of the song drawing his jaw closer to yours. If you weren’t in a room full of co-workers, you’d probably let him kiss you.
I mean, what you’re doing right now is hardly innocent anyway. His hands are splayed on your lower back, your hips flat against his, rubbing, dancing. Your head rolls back and your lips are under his chin, smiling up at him and singing along. Joel sings the words straight back, your breath meeting and mingling in the tiny gap between your lips.
As the song ends, it fades into another. And another, and another. It’s two in the morning before your group of partiers begin to call taxis. You stumble out of the sweaty bar with an arm linked through Deb’s, still singing along to Whitney as you catch your breath.
She staggers off to a quieter part of the street to call a cab, and you hang around under the red light waiting for her. Joel’s stood at the curb; the back door of his sleek black Rolls-Royce open.
“Where you goin’?” he asks.
“Deb’s callin’ a cab,” you reply, arms folded, shoulders hunched.
Joel shakes his head. “Get in.”
“It’s cool, I’m jumping in with those guys. Thanks, though–”
“Baby,” Joel holds a hand out, “get in.”
Your eyes trace from his palm all the way up his sleeve, to his tired, handsome face. You’re sobering up. He looks clearer. Maybe that’s just the streetlights.
“Get you home in five minutes. C’mon.”
You swivel around to look for Martha and Deb, but they’re nowhere to be seen. The cab will come, they’ll assume you’re staying a while, and get in. No big deal, right?
Well. Stepping into your boss’s car after a night of highly inappropriate touching is kind of a big fucking deal.
That’s why you do it. Waddle over to him, take his hand, let him guide you to the car. You swing a leg in and slip across the seats, admiring the ceiling dotted with hundreds of tiny white lights, like you’re staring straight up at the night sky.
They blur through your drunken gaze, which doesn’t pull from them until you feel the weight of Joel on your right and hear the door slam shut.
“Mind puttin’ the partition up, Rand?” Joel’s voice says, though you mostly hear the vibrations through his chest, where your head is lying. His arm slips around your back, pulling you closer into him as the two of you are granted privacy by the quiet whir of the screen closing.
“Good night?” Joel asks, lips on your hair.
You nod. “You?”
“Mhm.”
His fingers are drawing shapes on your left hip. His right hand intertwines with yours. Your left hand starts to wander.
You liked his hand on you. Liked feeling his grip there. Wanted him to keep moving it up, wanted to see how far he’d take it. So, you put your own hand on the inside of his thigh, just like he did. Starting at the knee, and slowly sliding north. Joel’s breath tightens, his chest lifts, his jaw ticks.
The movement knocks you sober for a couple seconds. You realize what you’re doing. You draw your hand back.
“Sorry,” you mutter.
He unlinks your hands and places a steady palm over your withdrawn fist.
“’s okay, baby. You can do that if you want to.”
The drawl of his voice makes your eyes roll back, your heart leap. Your fucking legs clench.
You let him replace your hand where it was, and his legs widen a little. His crotch more available. You’re watching what you’re doing like you’re not even in your own body; watching it how Joel must be, thinking Higher, higher, keep going, keep doing that.
You lift your heavy head, resting it on his shoulder, and look up into his brown eyes. He’s framed by the starlit ceiling of the car. He’s looking at you, brows furrowed, face lined with his expression.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod lazily. “Tired.”
Just then his hand takes yours again and shifts it softly, stopping what was probably about to happen but still holding onto you, still wanting your fingers locked in his. Not halting the train, just switching tracks.
It’s not a long journey, certainly not as long as you’d like, until you’re parked on your street. Rand lowers the partition to call back, and Joel thanks him.
“You okay gettin’ to your apartment?”
“Yup,” you groan, hoisting yourself out of the comfortable car.
“Sure? I can walk you up if you want.”
You bend down, one arm on the roof of the car. “I’m good, thanks. Thanks for the ride, Miller.”
“Be safe, baby.”
“You be safe, too. Bye.”
You throw the door closed and meander off up the steps toward your building. Joel’s car doesn’t roll off until your elevator arrives and you disappear inside.
You spend all weekend in bed, recovering not only from the party but from the week of work you’d endured. You keep yourself busy, though. There’s a Desperate Housewives marathon on TV. And when you’re not watching that, your hand is stuffed down your pants, Joel on your mind.
All. Fucking. Weekend.
In the shower, you’re picturing him on his knees in front of you, lapping you up. Hands gripping your thighs, draped over his shoulders. Your hand plants firmly against the wet tile when you cum, your orgasm threatening to collapse you in a heap.
In bed, you’re on top of him, knees either side of his waist, letting him buck his hips up until you’re screaming, covering him in your wet. Your vibrator battery dies by Saturday night.
Monday morning, you’re getting ready to leave for the office, and need to take ten minutes out to relieve the ache between your legs again. This time, he has you pressed against your bedroom wall, fucking you quick and messy, cumming deep inside you before he’ll let you head out.
It’s just a crush, right? It’s just because of how touchy you guys were on Friday. When you were drunk. And in a cramped, dark dive bar. Everybody gets crushes. And who wouldn’t, on a six-foot-whatever man with a jawline that could cut glass, hands that take a grip of you with minimal effort, a cock probably the size of…
No. Nope. That’s enough. Cut that the fuck out.
It’s just a crush. That’s what you keep telling yourself in the elevator, lights counting down the floors until you’re going to see Joel again. Is the sparkling feeling in your chest fear, anticipation, or excitement?
And is your cunt beginning to throb again?
You give a curt nod to Martha as you arrive, hauling your bag a little further up your shoulder and adjusting the folders in your arms on your hips.
“Where’d you go?” she asks, eyes still on the computer in front of her. Her chin propped on her elbow, face inches from the screen, reading something intently.
“Huh?”
“On Friday. We couldn’t find you when the cab arrived.”
“Oh, I, uh,” you clear your throat, “Joel gave me a ride. Yeah.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Generous of ‘im.”
“Yup.”
“He’s in the conference room waitin’ for you.”
“Cool, thanks.”
You hover for a few seconds, then take your cue to leave. You hurry over to the conference room door, knocking twice before pushing it open.
Joel’s sat at the top of the table, leant back in his chair, feet up on the wood in front of him. You feel like you could collapse.
“Mornin’,” he says, over the dull droning from the phone. Your eyes flit down to it, a question, and he answers, “weekend update.”
“Anything good?”
He shakes his head, leaning forward to hit the unmute button, affirm whatever the hell the other dude had been saying, say his goodbyes, and then hang up.
“Feelin’ fresh?” he asks when he’s sat back.
You take a deep breath and wobble your head as an answer, laying files and folders out on the table in preparation for the meeting Joel has this morning.
“That bad, huh?”
“I was fine by Saturday afternoon. How were you?”
He shrugs. “Wasn’t that drunk.”
Yeah. Sure, Joel. Your fingers took the brunt of the alcohol.
He stands up, wanders around the table to join you. Your fingers begin to tremble at the thought of him so close. Your thighs heat.
“This all of it?” he asks. He’s closer than you thought.
“Y-yep. Some copies there, too, if anyone needs a spare.”
His hand slips up between your shoulder blades, patting you gently at the base of your neck.
“Good job, baby.”
You almost fucking shudder. Your stomach jolts, your chest tightens. The ache between your legs pangs, reminding you it’s there, even though you can’t fucking do anything about it.
You spin around, settling back against the table, ankles crossed. Tense.
“How long do you reckon it’ll go on?”
“No idea. Why? Somewhere you gotta be?”
You shake your head. “Just organizing lunch ‘n stuff for you.”
“That can wait until after.”
“I’ll have it ready for you comin’ out. Be easier.”
He steps forward. Your heart stutters.
“You’ll be in here with me.”
You cock your head. “Again? What– Why?”
“I need you in here. To take–”
“–minutes? Yeah, figured as much. You gonna have me up here all night again writing ‘em up?”
He smirks, dimples in his cheeks. There are two options here: either smack him, or jump his bones – he deserves the first and you deserve the latter.
“I like having you in my meetings, darlin’,” he says, as the door handle turns, “stops me wanting to blow my brains out.”
Martha enters and Joel slots in alongside you on the table. She sets a tray with a coffee pot and packets of sugar and milk on the sideboard.
Your head is fucking dizzy. There’s a ringing in your ears. Energy sparkling in waves from the tops of your thighs all through you. Joel’s shoulder brushing against yours, his eyes boring into the side of your face.
You won’t look at him. Won’t take your eyes off of Martha, laying paper coffee cups out in rows, her back to you guys.
Joel lays a palm flat on your thigh, rounding the curve until his hand is firm between your legs, threatening to push your skirt up. You feel his breath hot on your neck, his voice like honey in your ear.
“Makes for a nice view, too.”
You whip around to glare at him. He leans back, chuckling to himself.
Through gritted teeth, you whisper, “Can I talk to you? In private?”
Joel shrugs, excuses you both to Martha, and then follows at your heels out of the conference room and over to his office door. You waltz in without permission, shoving the door open and waiting for him to close it behind himself.
Joel’s office is bright, clean. Giant windows lining three walls, huge desk with an even bigger bookcase behind. Two black leather couches opposite, facing one another with a glass coffee table between. Soft white rugs, obnoxiously huge lampshades, small fern plants dotted here and there. You found and booked the interior designer for him, and not a day’s gone by since that you don’t remind him of how nice a job you did.
Today, though, you break that streak. You round on him as soon as he closes the tall, wooden door behind him.
“Will you fucking quit it?”
“Fucking quit what, baby?” He’s almost laughing, strolling around his desk and settling into his leather chair, leaning back. Casual. Fucking – arrogant.
You stammer, holding up a shaky finger. “Okay, first of all – that. Don’t call me baby, that’s not appropriate. Second – the teasing?”
“I don’t get it, you liked me callin’ you baby on Friday night.”
You take your bottom lip between your teeth and give him a furious stare. He holds his hands up.
“My mistake.”
You stalk over to the windows separating Joel’s office from the reception area. Martha’s still in the conference room, the door ajar. You haul the shades shut to give yourselves some privacy.
“Stop – fucking with me. Stop it. We were drunk on Friday night. It wasn’t– Stop.”
“’m not fucking with you.” He leans his head to scratch his eyebrow. He repeats it when you turn away, hands flying up in the air. “I’m not.”
“Let’s just forget Friday happened, can we do that?”
Wandering around Joel’s office isn’t doing anything to relieve the weight between your legs. If anything, it’s making it worse. You make your way back to his desk and place your hands down on the wood, leaning over.
“Wh…what’s next on the agenda?” you ask, almost panting, your eyes closing.
You hear Joel’s chair rock when his weight leaves it. His footsteps pad across soft carpet, around the desk. Nearing you. They come to a halt and you feel the air stop short, right behind you.
For someone not trying to fuck with you, he’s doing an awfully good job at it.
You surrender, leaning back, your shoulders making contact with his chest. Then his hands find your hips, light, gentle. No pressure on them, not until your ass presses against his crotch and your head tilts, allowing Joel to hook his chin over your shoulder.
He’s hard, under his pants. Against you. You can feel it, still, steady. Rock solid beneath four layers of clothing.
His hands lift from your waist and glide up your shirt front, your stomach tensing when they brush over it. They come to rest over your breasts, squeezing and pinching your nipples through your shirt. And you fucking let him; lifting your right arm to hook around his jaw and pull him closer into your neck, where his lips leave soft, wet marks.
It feels like the first gasp of fresh, sea air after being underwater. The first gulp of chilled water after a hike. The first wave of aircon in the car. It’s relief. It’s desperate, borderline orgasmic relief.
You grind your ass and Joel hums into your skin. He’s getting harder by the second, you’re getting wetter. It’s not enough, what you’re doing. You need more.
You lower your hand and cup him through his pants, taking hold of his bulge and massaging gently. His hips are moving, he’s rutting into your palm, both of you desperate to rid yourselves of the clothing separating your skin.
“I asked,” you breathe, “what’s next on the agenda?”
“Next,” Joel mumbles into your skin, “was thinkin’ I could bend you over this desk ‘n fuck you.”
“Fuck me?” you repeat, and he nods. You take a breath. “S-sounds good.”
Joel’s hands find the hem of your skirt and start to pull it up your legs, painfully slow, revealing more and more of your bare thighs as he goes. He’s rubbing them, massaging until your skirt sits on your hips, little black panties exposed. His hand comes down to cup you, fingers gently applying pressure to your clit through the lace.
You moan, finally being touched by him again, finally feeling his hands on you where you need it most. Already, he’s doing better, making you feel better than you could ever by yourself. Than you did, by yourself. Involuntarily, you breathe out, “Daddy…”
Joel’s fingers pick up the pace. He fucking loves it.
“That feel good, baby? Like it like that? Tell me how it feels.”
“So – fucking – good,” you whisper, legs parting more to grant him better access. He dips his hand lower, thumb staying planted on your lace-covered clit, fingers shifting the fabric under your entrance aside.
He toys with you first, middle finger swaying back and forth through your folds, collecting slick, spreading it around. Then, a second finger, pushing upward, dangerously close to entering you. You’re gasping, leaning into him, letting his strong form keep you upright.
“That’s my girl,” Joel’s whispering into your ear. “You ain’t gotta do nothin’, just enjoy.”
And then he pushes up, two thick, curled fingers entering your cunt in one motion. He has you down to his knuckles, limp against his chest, mouth wide open in a silent gasp. Your head rolls to the side to watch him as he feels you for the first time, and his expression mirrors yours.
“So fuckin’ wet, babygirl,” he whispers, lips on your forehead.
“Fuck, daddy,” you whimper as his fingers press hard inside your soft pussy, starting to pump gently before picking up the pace and fucking you good.
The office is silent, save for your gasps and moans, and the wet sounds of Joel’s fingers in your cunt. He hums into your neck, thumb pressing hard against your clit, drawing tiny circles over the swollen bud.
It doesn’t take fucking long before you’re collapsing, walls clenching, teetering on the edge of your orgasm. It’s all that’s been on your mind for almost three days, all you’ve imagined, dreamt about, thought of.
Joel feels you, knows you’re close.
“Wanna cum all over daddy’s fingers, pretty girl?”
“Mhm,” you bite back a yelp, “so – close.”
“Know you are, baby. It’s okay, you can cum. Let me feel you.”
That coil, slowly winding since approximately nine-thirty on Friday night, not relieved by your hands, your toys, or your fucking pillows, snaps in one second. The tension breaks across your stomach. Your legs give; Joel’s free hand wraps around your waist to hold you upright.
You throw your head back against his shoulder again, jaw slack with a moan you know you can’t give voice to. Joel fucks you all the way through it, fingers coated in your cum only to dive straight back in, wetter and slicker than before.
There are stars in your vision. You can’t feel between your legs. The office is slowly blinking back into view, but Joel gives you no time to recover.
He pushes you face down onto his desk roughly, hastily, like someone’s about to wander through his door any second. One ear pressed to the cold wood, you hear his belt clink, feel the teeth of his zipper graze your thighs. Hear his deep breaths as he drags his pants and boxershorts down to free his cock.
You’ve never seen him, obviously. You’ve pictured it, dreamt up what it would look like with your fingers deep inside yourself. And from this angle you still don’t see it, but when the weight of it springs against your ass, when Joel lines himself up and his tip dips between your cum-covered folds, you fucking feel it.
His thick head pushing slightly into your entrance, coating him in your slick. He’s big. You moan at the time he’s taking to just shove into you; it’s probably seconds, but it feels like fucking hours.
“I hear ya, I know,” he’s saying, but your hearing’s starting to fade. Blood pumping through your head, white noise rattling against your eardrums.
He pushes in, length separating your clenched walls, entering your wet, warm cunt with a deep growl from Joel’s lips and a gasp from yours. You open up around him, swelling as he pushes deeper and deeper.
“So – fuckin’ – tight for me, baby,” he groans, hands on your hips pulling you back onto his length. “You feel that? Feel how tight you are?”
“Mhm,” you reply, the stretch of his thick cock burning and igniting you in flame. Your eyes screw shut as he keeps pushing, further than you ever thought anyone could, until his tip kisses your cervix and you whine.
“Quiet, babygirl,” he says, pausing and placing a steady hand on the small of your back. “We don’t need anyone out there knowin’ what we’re doin’.”
“So good, daddy,” you whimper quietly, and he knows. He fucking knows.
He begins to draw back, hips leaving your ass, cock pulling out of your pussy. Your eyes roll closed, missing him the more he withdraws. Before he’s fully gone, he snaps back inside, entering you harder, faster, deeper.
You gasp, knuckles whitening with the grip of your balled fists. You bend one arm, biting into your sleeve to stop your whimpers from slipping under the door.
A couple more thrusts and Joel’s fucking you. Hard. He’s fucking huge, so huge it blurs the edges of your vision every time his cock hits against your cervix. He’s almost fucking whimpering behind you, growling your name with every stroke, groaning each time he bottoms out inside you and your tight hole wraps around his length.
You can feel the edge of the table bruising your pelvis, and it feels so fucking good. Everything about this feels good. Joel’s cock stretching you out, his hands gripping you roughly, your own hands outstretched to hold onto the desk for some sort of stability.
The only thought going through your head, only words your lips can part to utter: daddy daddy daddy.
“Good girl,” Joel hums, your moans like music to his ears. “Good fuckin’ girl. Know how naughty you are for me?”
You smile. “Yeah, daddy.”
This is the filthiest thing you’ve ever fucking done. Sure, you love sex, especially when it’s rough. But nothing you’ve ever done with anyone else, nothing you’ve ever had done to you by anyone else, compares to being bent over your boss’s desk and fucked dumb by him.
Calling him daddy, corporate managers slowly filing into a conference room just outside. Only an unlocked door separating them from you, writhing and throbbing under Joel’s cock, his rough hands on your hips, your name passing his lips in breathy moans.
Is it wrong? Yes. Do you care? Fuck no.
You know he’s close; his thrusts become sloppy, hips start hammering against you.
“Where d’you want it, baby?” he grunts, skin slapping.
You’re on the pill, and if you answered honestly, you’d tell him to finish inside you. But you know that if he wanted to do that, he’d just fucking do it. Wouldn’t ask. And you’re not prepared to waste time arguing.
“My m-mouth.”
“C’mere.” Joel slips out of you with no effort, you’re so fucking soaked for him, and spins you around. A gentle hand on your shoulder, he pushes you onto your knees, free hand jacking his cock over you.
It’s the first time you see him, fist tugging up and down a thick, veiny shaft; swollen, reddened tip spilling precum which his thumb collects and drags down his length, gleaming with your wet.
On instinct, you push forward, one hand coming to rest on his thigh, the other taking over from his on his dick. You pump him a few times, and then open your mouth wide enough to take him all the way until he’s brushing the back of your throat.
With a choke, you begin bobbing your head up and down, cheeks hollow, breathing deep through your nose. Joel moans, head rolling back, hand coming to hold your hair in a fist. He drags you back and forth a few times before he begins to shudder and you draw back, holding him steady on your swollen bottom lip.
He looks down at you and your eyes lock as he cums all over your tongue. You moan as your mouth fills with his warm, salty load. When his cock stills and he stops spilling all over you, you lean back and close your mouth, licking your lips and swallowing him.
“Aw, babygirl,” he coos, stroking your hair. “Good job. Such a good girl for me.”
You both take a few seconds to catch your breath before Joel’s hands hook under your arms and he pulls you back up, letting you lean against his desk.
Still in a daze, you feel him tug your skirt back down, fix your shirt. Tuck your hair behind your ears, wipe either saliva or cum from your lips.
“Good?” he asks, and you lace your fingers in his.
Your breath is still shaky, but through a sigh, you say, “Good.”
He nods. “Can hear Ken out front, must all be arrivin’.” He pulls you over to the door.
His fingers wrap around the handle, free hand coming up to cup your cheek. He leans down and presses his lips against yours. You open your mouth and let his tongue past, moaning into the wet, messy kiss.
Something in you almost wants to laugh, thinking about the fact you let him fuck you before you’d even kissed him.
When he pulls away, your hands take hold of his jaw, keeping him at your height.
“Have a good meeting,” you whisper, pecking him on the lips, “text me what you want for lunch.”
He growls, yanking the door open and passing by you, granting your wish to sit this one out. Something in you tells you not to wander far, though.
He’ll probably want to blow off some steam when he’s done.
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