Chapter 14: Winner's Table

By seven on Tuesday night the fourth floor was empty and the cleaning crew had come and gone.

I stayed in 4B with the blinds shut and the Ridgeline printouts stacked on the table.

Drake shut the glass door behind him and turned the lock.

It was his day, and he knew it, and I knew it, and neither of us had said a word about it since the stairwell.

He took off his vest and hung it over a chair.

Then he took his tie out of his pocket and set it on the table, folded.

"Szymanski," he said.

"Hollister."

"Take off your skirt and your tights. Keep the cardigan."

My knees went soft.

I did it slowly, on purpose, with my heels still on.

He watched every inch.

"Hands on the table."

I put my palms flat on the printouts, the Ridgeline spec sheets, with their little charts of weight and cost.

He stepped up behind me and I felt the warmth of him through the air before he touched me.

He took both my wrists in one big hand and pinned them to the wood above my head.

"You walked eleven miles in my pack," he said into my ear.

"I did."

"You wore it for three days and told no one."

"I wanted to be right."

"You were right about the strap."

His free hand slid down my back, over my ass, and between my legs from behind.

"Drake."

"You're wet."

"I have been wet since ten o'clock yesterday morning."

"I know," he said. "I watched you get there."

He ran two fingers through me, slowly, and I pushed back into his hand with a sound I didn't plan.

"Ask me for what you want. Without the word."

"Fuck me."

"That's not the word."

"Fuck me, Hollister. Now. I'm in your conference room with my skirt on the floor and I've been good for a week."

"You've been unbearable for a week," he said.

I heard his belt, and his zipper.

Then there was only his cock against me, thick and hot and hard, sliding through my wet once, twice.

I shoved back.

He gripped my wrists tighter, and he pushed in.

I cried out into the crook of my arm.

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