So, it’s come to this. A dimly lit conference hall, a table at the back, some “accidentally” dropped pens and one Deputy going down on her while she squirms in her chair, blouse sticking to her flushed skin.
Technically they’re not supposed to be alone, but all of their subordinates have come down – haha – with a mild case of food poisoning the night before.
‘Did you add “poisoner” to your long list of sins?’ she’d hissed at him when they’d arrived to a virtually empty table.
A lazy glance at his watch. ‘It’s only two-thirty, Liz, don’t get ahead of yourself. Next, you’ll be accusing me of arranging JFK’s assassination.’
‘No, because conspiracy theories are more your thing.’
‘Anyway, what possible interest would I have in incapacitating our own staff?’
Her already narrowed eyes had almost been in danger of becoming slits.
‘Finn, run that through your oversized, vindictive head first before asking stupid questions.’
Opening his mouth to retort, he’d been drowned out by the speakers at the front.
Therefore, it’s understandably somewhat of a shock to have that same mouth up close and personal less than five minutes later. When he’d dipped beneath the tablecloth, she had paid no attention, apart from casually contemplating the pros and cons of kicking him in the face.
Then came the featherlight touch of his fingers trailing up and then under the hem of her skirt, swiftly followed by his warm lips. Liz had barely begun to regret choosing skirt over trousers this morning when Finn decided to lazily stick his tongue up her cunt.
That had got her attention. And it’s a miracle she hadn’t flipped the table over when she’d shot upright in her chair. But maybe that was less to do with an act of God, and more of an act of Finn when he’d quickly grasped her by the waist. (What people would have made of two apparently disembodied hands appearing from nowhere is anyone’s guess.)
Extending a vehement middle finger under the table had done nothing because Finn had merely sucked on that, too, before returning to other things. Namely, her clit. She feels rather than hears his moans – exaggerated, no doubt, for her benefit but no less hot – though her core. Even through the fucking tablecloth. The annoying thing is that he’s pinpointed the exact moments when there’s a lull in the proceedings; so, she does get to hear him moan, but only for a nanosecond before the speakers come to life again.
Liz could kick him now, actually, but it seems her legs have turned to jelly. She lets loose a soft whine, the only sound she’s emitted so far, and there’ll soon be much louder ones to follow if he continues like this…
‘Fuck, Finn, please –’
Half a minute passes – and then the microphone at the front suddenly decides to cut out. Panic and pleasure mounting in equal amounts, Liz tries to push him off, but Finn shows no sign of letting up and the bastard seems intent on making her come loudly in a now silent room and she has no way of stopping…
Never has she been more grateful for audio feedback.
Finn finally emerges from beneath the table, pens ostensibly in hand. To Liz’s irritation, he appears unfazed. Only the light sheen of his forehead betrays…
‘Well, that was a long search,’ he quips, washing her down with now-cold coffee.
She fixes him with a dark look; he can't tell if it’s lust or disdain. Eventually, she leans forward.
‘Hmm, what’s the word? Penetrating.’
He chokes audibly.