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My job at Jacobs & Wilcox was basically a pity job, to be honest. A part-time, entry-level pity job attained via good old-fashioned nepotism.

Sharon Wilcox had been friends with my parents for over a decade, and thus had known me since I was an awkward, shy teenager. She hadn’t laid eyes on me in years when she agreed to give me a job after college. I don’t think I’d seen her since my high school graduation, as a matter of fact. But my parents and I were all pretty desperate for me to start bringing in money after I reluctantly moved back home with a liberal arts degree under my belt, so…part-time job at a real estate law firm it was.

On my first day of work, I didn’t even see Sharon until after lunch. I’d been through a brief onboarding session with the office manager and was then set loose in the late morning to begin organizing files and dropping faxes off at people’s desks.

Sharon looked surprised to see me, which I couldn’t help thinking was a bad sign. She paused mid-step in the walkway near the fax machine and looked at me as if she’d never seen me before. I greeted her, trying to seem normal and not at all like I was worried that she’d forgotten she offered me job, or that she didn’t recognize me.

I mean, I changed my style a lot after I got comfortable with my sexuality (my parents wouldn’t stop pestering me about my short hair and my refusal to wear skirts or makeup). But I still looked like the same person, I thought.

As soon as I spoke, she smiled in recognition and welcomed me to the firm, but I swore I could still feel her eyes on me after I got back to faxing documents. I felt my weak little gay heart speed up, for some reason.

Some reason that was definitely not my teenage crush on Sharon Wilcox returning with a vengeance.

I wouldn’t say that Sharon was classically beautiful. She was tall and slim and blonde, but in a fit, angular way, not in a soft, pretty way. She wore her hair pretty short—it hung around her neck and ears in loose, natural waves, which made a lovely contrast with her otherwise buttoned-up appearance. Her nose and jawline were sharp enough to cut, and her tongue was equally sharp when she let her biting sense of humor slip past her normally genteel manners. Usually it was sexist men who fell victim to her sardonic wit. I have no idea how she tolerated my dad, to be honest, but I’d always loved when she poked fun at him in her sly way.

I had been fascinated by her for years, but I thought I’d managed to shed that awkward teenage crush when I left for college. But as soon as I started working for her, the crush came roaring back. She was just so impressive. Laconic, graceful, poised, whip-smart, witty, and kind—even to the awkward young office assistant.

She was also so, so hot. Competent, smart women have always done it for me, and she was one of the most competent women I’d ever met.

I will never forget the moment when my crush grew into a full-blown obsession.

I was standing in front of the fax machine in my usual spot, collating and stapling documents to deliver to the paralegals. She must have been waiting for a fax herself, because she came up behind me and rested her hand on my back for a moment as she peered over my shoulder at the incoming document. I’m sure it was completely innocent on her part. Inconsequential. Just a light touch, as if to say “Hey, I’m right behind you,” and then a gentle scratch up and down before she withdrew, fax in hand.

I was completely thunderstruck. Goosebumps raced across my body. I just barely stopped myself from gasping out loud.

My brain crashed and slowly rebooted. I must have stood there, frozen, for a good thirty seconds after she walked away.

That night was the first time I touched myself with Sharon on my mind, but far from the last.

After that brief encounter by the fax machine, I became far too aware of her presence whenever we were in the same room. It wasn’t a big law firm, so I usually saw her several times a day, but I had never paid such close attention before that touch.

Now I couldn’t seem to stop paying attention to her, even if I wanted to. Even if I felt certain she probably noticed me eyeing every one of her boxy, modest outfits, her manicured nails, her piercing eyes, her strong forearms. Her bewilderingly attractive tiny crow’s feet that only showed when she smiled her wide, beautiful smile.

She couldn’t have been more than 40, I don’t think, though of course that was way older than my 23-year-old self. But she was so clearly a woman in her prime. Confident, capable, funny, fit. (Hot.) I grew to love the sharpness of her bone structure, the quiet assurance in her stride, the gracefulness of her slender fingers, the way she could command a conversation without ever raising her voice.

When she needed me to do something, she always asked, never demanded. I would have done anything for her.

I was crushing, hard. Fantasizing. Wondering what she looked like under those loose outfits. How defined her muscles were from the tennis that I knew she played. What color her nipples were. How she sounded when she was being eaten out. Actually, I wondered if anyone had ever done that for her. I had my doubts—I knew she attended a very conservative church.

It blew my mind that she was still single. She’d never had a romantic relationship that I knew of. Hell, she might have been a virgin, for all I knew.

The idea that such a compelling woman could have been alone for so long just seemed wrong to me. Was everyone blind? Had the straight men fully lost their minds? (Yes, but that’s nothing new.)

In retrospect, I’m sure I was pretty obvious about my crush. I wasn’t out at work, but I also wasn’t subtle, and Sharon was a perceptive woman. I could only hope she was content to accept it as a form of flattery and continue to graciously ignore the way I devolved into debilitating awkwardness the moment she spoke to me.

That unfortunate, one-sided crush probably would have been where things stayed until I left the firm, except for a chance meeting that changed everything.

I was not out to most people in my life. I had only been out to myself for about a year, honestly—a late bloomer who didn’t find herself until it was too late to have a slutty phase in college. Moving back home with my homophobic parents certainly didn’t help—I couldn’t be out to them or anyone they knew without risking my housing situation.

But I did have some new queer friends in my hometown, and they’d told me about a drag show at a nearby gay bar. So we went to see a drag show, and I had a few drinks, and my friends wingwomanned for me pretty hard, and, well, one thing led to another.

Before I knew it, I was in a grimy back hallway near the bathrooms, making out with a cute punk girl whose name I didn’t know. I just knew that she had pink hair and an ass to die for and a denim jacket with a lot of pins on it. The pins rattled against each other when I grabbed the jacket to pull her into a kiss, and I can still remember the pleased little inhale she gave when I pressed her against the wall.

After that, everything was a bit of a blur. Within a few minutes I had a hand up her shirt and she had hers in my hair, tugging me toward wherever she wanted me to kiss her next.

I was putty in her hands, and she was definitely getting off on the way I followed her every command.

Then she slipped her skirt up and guided my hand under it and between her legs. To my astonishment, she wasn’t wearing underwear.

“Make me come, baby” she whispered in my ear, right as my hand landed on her wet pussy.

For the first time in my life, I had my fingers on a clit other than my own. I wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but I wasn’t going to miss such an opportunity. With a furtive glance back down the hallway, I started rubbing her the way I liked to get myself off.

I did my best to hide her partial nudity with my body and her skirt, but I’m sure anyone with eyes could tell what we were doing. The bathroom goers studiously ignored us as they passed, and I eventually managed to forget the audience, since she seemed fine with it. Into it, even.

“Yeah, just like that,” she whispered right as someone walked behind me.

I’m sure my touch was a bit clumsy, but she came anyway, letting out a moan that the passersby definitely heard.

I blushed, but I also felt absurdly proud of myself. I brought my hand up to my face and licked my fingers, mostly because I was desperate to finally see how a woman other than me tasted. (Delicious.)

“I’m Lacey,” she said, biting her lip.

Baby gay that I was, one strategic lip bite and a taste of pussy was enough to melt me into a puddle.

“I’m Kate,” I told her, stars in my eyes, fingers still slick with spit and cum.  

And then I heard the footsteps behind me stop. And a voice I recognized said “Katherine?”

I froze. I’m sure my face must have been white as a sheet. Lacey’s expression went from seductive to worried instantly. I wasn’t sure if it was more for my safety or hers, but she grabbed my flannel, as if to keep me from turning around. “Ignore her,” she whispered urgently. “Don’t react.”

But I would have had to be dead to ignore that voice.

I turned around and there she was. Sharon. Staring at my shocked, scared face, which probably still had stains from Lacey’s bright blue lipstick.

“Sharon,” I stammered. “Hi.”

There was no way it wasn’t beyond obvious what I’d been doing. Because my higher brain functions had shut off, I was still holding my hand awkwardly in front of my chest. Then I remembered that my fingers were still glistening with moisture and blushed, dropping my hand to my side. I hoped the sleeve of my flannel would hide it.

I was too late. Sharon’s eyes tracked the movement almost absent-mindedly, and then she realized what had happened. She hesitated for a second, and then jerked her gaze back up to my face. Her eyes were wide and a little wild. It was by far the least composed look I’d ever seen on her.

“I, um, good to see you,” she said.

I blinked at her stupidly. “Yeah, you too.”

“I’ll…see you at work?” her voice warbled a bit at the end, as if she wasn’t quite sure if it was a question or not.

I nodded.

She drew herself up a little straighter, and I saw her working valiantly to put her polite, competent boss face on. “I hope I can count on your discretion. As you can count on mine.”

I’m sure my eyes must have been the size of dinner plates at that point. “Uh, yes ma’am, of course,” I managed to say. I could feel my knees shaking under me. “You can—uh, you can count on me.”

And then she walked away, leaving me shell-shocked and trembling.

“Shit,” Lacey said from behind me. “Was that your boss?”

I turned back to her, searingly sober and somewhere around two feet to the left of my own body.

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“She was…surprisingly cool about it,” Lacey pointed out.

I choked out a faint, disbelieving laugh at the idea of a girl with pink hair and a punk vest calling conservative, pearl-wearing Sharon Wilcox “cool.”

But Lacey was right, I realized. Sharon had been…surprisingly cool about it. For now.

I wasn’t sure if it was better or worse than dreading it over a full weekend, but I had to face Sharon at work the very next morning, slightly hungover and completely terrified.

When she asked to speak to me in her office, I was sure I was about to be fired. But she just ushered me in, locked the door, and sat behind her wide, paper-strewn desk, staring at me searchingly. Her only giveaways were the tension in her shoulders and around her eyes.

“Katherine,” she started, and then she paused for a bit, thinking.

Sharon always called me by my full name, and I tried not to let her see how weak in the knees it made me when she did it.

“I think we are in a situation best described as ‘mutually assured destruction.’”

I swallowed. Yeah, that was pretty true. She had her professional reputation and her church reputation on the line. I had a job on the line and homophobic parents who might kick me out.

“I won’t tell,” I said. “Not a word, I promise.”

“What about your girlfriend?” she asked quietly. “Does she know where you work?”

I blinked. “Who?”

She looked down at her hands, which were toying with her college ring. “The girl from last night. With the pink hair.”

I blushed. “She’s not my girlfriend,” I admitted. “She doesn’t even know my last name. You’re safe, I swear.”

Her eyebrows rose. I was ready for a judgmental look, but instead she looked…surprised. There was a brief hint of some other emotion, but it was hidden before I could identify it.

“Good,” she said firmly, sounding much more like herself. “I won’t ask you any more awkward questions. I don’t expect this to change our working relationship. You’re free to get back to work.”

I nodded and rose to leave.

Her eyes burned holes in my back the whole way.

I desperately wanted to tell Dani and TJ about this situation, but I was sure Sharon wouldn’t be comfortable with them knowing. So I just squirmed silently, torn between mortification that Sharon knew I was the kind of girl who fucked strangers in the hallway of a gay bar and desperate curiosity about why she’d been there herself.

Sharon honestly seemed kind of curious, too. Sometimes I would catch her looking at me as if she was trying to figure me out. We made strangely meaningful eye contact at least once a day. It was hard not to, since we were both paying an unusual amount of attention to each other.  

And of course my obsession had only ramped up knowing that she was interested in women—interested enough to show up at a gay bar, anyway. I suppose it was possible she had just gone to a drag show with friends, but I didn’t really think so. For someone who attended her church, being seen there was a big risk. It didn’t seem worth it if she didn’t have more skin in the game than that.

Was Sharon perpetually single because she was a lesbian? I couldn’t help wondering (daydreaming) about possibilities that suddenly seemed much more real.

A few weeks later, my curiosity was at a fever pitch, and I suppose hers must have been as well. I was carrying a couple file boxes from the storage room to her office, and they were stacked high enough that I couldn’t see her in front of me. Only her quick reaction time saved us from a full-on collision. She grabbed my shoulders to stop me, and I nearly dropped the files from the shock of feeling her hands on me.

“Whoa,” she said, pretty calmly for a woman who had almost been bowled over. “You okay?”

“Sorry,” I squeaked out, hoping she couldn’t tell how destroyed my nerves were just from feeling the warmth of her hands through my shirt.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Come in and put those down in the corner there.”

I did as instructed, taking an extra moment to regulate my breathing before I turned around and made eye contact.

She didn’t look as affected as I felt, but I could see that tension around her eyes again. She flexed her hands and wrung them a little, as if shaking off a strange sensation. Then I looked up and saw that she had noticed me noticing the motion.

She actually blushed a little bit, and my heart started pounding like it was about to burst right out of my chest.

“Thank you, Katherine.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, too stunned to find any other words. And then I stood there like an idiot, staring into her intense brown eyes until she cleared her throat and woke me from my stupor.

I left hastily, more curious than ever about what could possibly be going through her mind to make her blush like that. Was she thinking about the moment she’d witnessed that night? Was I now forever associated with lesbian sex in her mind? The idea was incredibly tantalizing, but it seemed so far-fetched.

The week following our near-collision was somehow even more fraught with tension than before. We made intense eye contact multiple times a day. Once I saw her lose track of what she was saying on the phone mid-sentence as we locked eyes.

I was doing even worse myself. Sharon at least managed to remain outwardly composed. I, on the other hand, was jumpy, distracted, and horny as hell. I could still feel the ghost of her hands on my shoulders and see the faint pink in her pale cheeks. And I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I made just about every type of forgivable but stupid mistake that a legal assistant could make that week. I mixed up two fax recipients while staring at Sharon’s hands. I mailed a document to the wrong address while fantasizing about eating Sharon’s pussy on her desk. I even dropped three files on the floor of her office and had to pick up and reorganize their contents while she watched me scramble. (That last one really wasn’t my fault. I saw the tip of Sharon’s tongue poke out as she licked her lips and promptly lost control of my hands.)

Then she put her hand on my bare forearm while I was zoned out in front of the fax machine and I nearly came out of my skin.

I would have tried to play it off as just startlement, but I could feel myself trembling and blushing under her close scrutiny, and it only got worse when she stroked her thumb down my forearm before letting go.

My mouth actually fell open a little bit, and I’m sure I would have gaped at her indefinitely if she hadn’t tipped her head meaningfully towards the fax machine, which I was blocking her access to.

I clamped my traitorous lips together and made a beeline for the restroom, praying that no one would stop me with another task before I could get there.

I locked the door behind me with trembling fingers, nearly hyperventilating from a bewildering mixture of feelings and sensations.

My hands shook with adrenaline. I could see a flush still lingering in my cheeks as I stared at my shocked face in the mirror. My pulse pounded in my ears and between my legs. I was so swollen that I could feel my clit brush against the inside of my underwear when I walked, and I had no idea how I was going to get through the rest of the day.

Did…did she do that on purpose? Surely there was no need for her to hold onto my arm for so long, or brush her thumb against me. Right?

I tried to think it through logically, but to be perfectly honest, my brain was not getting a lot of blood flow at the moment.

I was tempted to get myself off there and then, but I was behind on my work for the day (no surprise there, given my distracted state), and I wasn’t sure I would be able to come knowing that my coworkers were right outside the door.

In the end, I splashed some cold water on my face and got back to work, hoping that nobody would pay too much attention to my pink cheeks.

I have never watched a clock as fervently as I did that afternoon.

I was clinging to my composure with my fingernails and trying desperately not to feel the phantom brush of Sharon’s fingers against my skin. I was also working hard to convince myself that I didn’t feel her eyes tracking me through every room, until I finally gave up and hid myself away in the file storage room sometime in the late afternoon.

I must have paced back and forth across that small rectangle of windowless space for an hour or more, heart pounding the whole time.

One moment I would almost manage to convince myself that it was all in my head. Then I would remember her thumb brushing against my forearm. That blush from a week ago. The way I could feel her eyes burning into me whenever we were in the same room. The way her voice sounded a little deeper, a little raspier, when she said my name.

I just couldn’t quite talk myself out of that “what if.”

But if I fully believed, even for a second, that this crush might be mutual, I was sure I was going to do something incredibly foolish and lose my job. I was already horny and distracted. It was affecting my ability to do my work, and my obvious reactions to her made me a walking liability to a woman so deeply closeted. If Sharon had any sense at all, she would be eager to get me as far away from her workplace as possible.

Maybe, I thought, if I just stayed in the file room until everyone had gone home, I’d be able to keep myself from getting fired for flinging myself at my boss.

Alas, two minutes before quitting time, I heard footsteps in the hallway outside my little hiding spot.

I closed my eyes and crossed my fingers, hoping against hope that the footsteps would just keep going. My unsteady breaths echoed slightly off the bare walls and metal filing cabinets as I tried to calm myself and listen over the blood rushing in my ears.

The footsteps eventually slowed to a stop, and the door swung open.

I knew who it would be. Of course I did. Who could possibly want to stop me from escaping this place with my job and heart intact but the cause of all my torment?

Sharon entered the little storage room, which was unusual enough, and then closed and locked the door behind her, which she had certainly never done before. Her eyes remained fixed on me the whole time. 

I quivered under her piercing gaze, stunned and speechless, and bared my neck for whatever final blow she had come to deliver.

“You have to stop looking at me like that,” she said in a near-whisper.

“Like what?” I asked, before I could think better of it.

She inhaled an overly controlled breath. “Like you’re offering yourself up to me.”

Her eyes were sharp and fierce, her hands flexing at her sides, as if she was working hard not to clench them.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I…I can’t seem to help it.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and turned her face toward the ceiling. I saw her lips moving—a silent prayer?

When her eyes opened again, they were so, so sad.

“You’re going to ruin me, Katherine.” She took a step forward, close enough that I could see her eyes glistening, see the flutter of her eyelashes as she appeared to blink tears away.

“What?” I whispered.

“I was doing so well.” She took another step forward. Close enough to touch, if she’d wanted to.

I told myself to step back, to put some distance between us, but my feet seemed rooted to the floor.

“I hadn’t even looked at a woman in months. And then you showed up, all grown up and butch and gorgeous. I didn’t even recognize you at first.”

My jaw dropped. I’m sure I looked exactly as poleaxed as I felt.

She sighed. “You kept watching me. Always staring at my hands, my face, my ass.”

My cheeks went hot at the accusation, at the sound of that word coming out of her perfect, well-mannered mouth.

Sharon was on a roll now, talking faster and faster. “I was actually at the bar that night to find someone to take my mind off you. ‘It’s just an innocent crush,’ I told myself. ‘Ignore it. It doesn’t mean anything. You don’t have to do anything about it.’”

My poor heart was getting a workout today. It raced as I stared at her, this near-stranger with so much passion and devastation on her usually serene face.

“I saw you with her. Even from behind, I thought it was you. ‘My mind is playing tricks on me,’ I thought. You put your fingers in your mouth and I started to walk past, thinking I must have been wrong.”

She shook her head, clearly lost in the memory. “And then I heard you say your name. I was so shocked that I greeted you automatically. Then I realized why you were licking your fingers, and I was so jealous I wanted to die.”

Jealous? Sharon was jealous?

My brain was full of static as I watched Sharon’s features contort in pain. Tears started to slip down her flushed cheeks.

She was so, so beautiful.

“The next day, you said she wasn’t your girlfriend,” Sharon said, looking at me with bewildered, wounded eyes. “As if you have sex with strange women in bars all the time. No big deal. So I assumed your crush was over. I tried to put it behind me.”

She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, careful of her makeup, and then she skewered me with a fierce glance.

“But you kept staring at me. You were as affected as I was when we almost ran into each other in my office. And earlier today, you turned red when I touched your arm. So which is it, do you have a crush, or do I mean nothing to you?”

I blinked up at her. She had a few inches of height on me even in flats, but she was wearing heels, so I had to tip my head back to maintain eye contact as she came even closer.

“I’ve had a crush on you forever,” I admitted. “But I figured it was impossible, so it wouldn’t matter who else I slept with to get over you.”

Her eyes were burning hot now as she gripped my upper arms. “Who else? How many more anonymous women do I have to be jealous of?”

I couldn’t believe she was touching me on purpose, that she was this into me.

My foolish body was reacting to it, too, uncaring of the complicated emotional dynamics, of the fact that she was my boss. My nipples tingled, and my pussy felt slick and sensitive.

“No one” I choked out. “It was just her. Just what you saw.”

“That’s far too big of a coincidence. I don’t believe you.”

I could feel myself frowning. “Believe what you want, Sharon. But I’ve been obsessed with you for months, and then when I finally try to get over you with someone else, you show up and ruin it, and now you won’t stop looking at me, and I can’t even think about anyone else.”

“It’s not my fault,” she whispered. “You looked at me first.”

“Maybe so,” I said, “but you touched me first. Twice. No, three times, not even counting your hands on me right now. I’m only human, Sharon. What do you want me to do?”

She stepped even closer and gripped my chin with her left hand, tipping my head back so she could stare into my eyes from barely a foot away.

I shook in her grasp, but I didn’t move an inch. Let her look. She would see only the truth on my face.

“You like it when I touch you?” she asked, and my head caught fire as her thumb stroked back and forth across my jaw.

I licked my dry lips and took a desperate gamble. “The first time you touched my back when I was in your way at the fax machine, I got goosebumps. My whole body tingled. I thought I was going to burst into flames if I didn’t go home and touch myself as soon as possible.”

Sharon’s eyes flared hotter than ever, and she let out a gasp as I finished speaking. Her right hand rose to cup the other side of my jaw, fingers fluttering unsteadily against my cheek. She looked like she didn’t know whether to kiss me or wring my neck.

My throat felt parched. I swallowed harshly, gathering my courage. “Earlier today, after you put your hand on my arm, I almost masturbated in the bathroom just to get through the day, but I couldn’t quite do it.”

Sharon’s hands trembled on my skin, tightening their grip as her eyes flicked down toward my hands and then up to my mouth.

“I’ve been so wet all afternoon,” I sighed.

With a noise of frustrated desperation, Sharon finally pressed our lips together.

She kissed me with what felt like years of repressed desire. It was glorious. Her lips were hot and a little waxy with lipstick, and her nimble tongue did amazing things to the inside of my mouth. My head spun as her fingers tugged at my hair and her manicured nails scraped against my scalp.

After a few seconds of being kissed like it was the end of the world, I threw caution to the wind and wrapped my arms around her, kissing back just as hard. Her body was slender and firm against my softer one, and I did my best to memorize the sensation in case this was the only time she lost control enough to make out with me.

Her rapid exhales burst hotly against my lips when we finally separated to catch our breath. She rested her forehead against mine with a sort of resigned huff. “What are you doing to me?” she whispered, almost to herself.

At this point, I figured I might as well go for broke. “Whatever you want,” I said.

Her eyes burned into me. “Are you going to shove me against the wall and fuck me like you did with that girl at the bar?”

God, it should have been illegal for straitlaced Sharon to curse like that. I swear I felt myself get wetter when she dropped that little “fuck” so casually.

“I will if you want me to,” I said. “I’ll do whatever you want, as much as you want. I’ll eat you out right here until you beg me to stop.”

She groaned and closed her eyes. I felt her trembling in my arms. “God forgive me,” she said. “I can’t do it anymore—I just can’t.”

And then she practically attacked me with her mouth. I gasped and staggered a bit, and she walked me backwards until I hit the wall.

I half-collapsed against it, grateful for the support, as she bent her head to ravage my neck.

“I have to have you,” she said. “You’ve been driving me so—I have to. Just this once.”

“Oh my god,” I said weakly, clutching at her back as goosebumps raced up my spine.

One of her hands began working impatiently at the buttons on my shirt until she finally got it open almost to the waist.

She pulled back just enough to look down at my cleavage in a utilitarian beige bra and groaned again. “Gorgeous,” she muttered, shoving a hand inside one of the cups to tug at my nipple. “How am I supposed to resist this?”

My nipples aren’t particularly sensitive, but just knowing how much she liked my tits made them tingle and harden.

“You don’t have to resist,” I said. “You can touch them whenever you want.”

Sharon dropped to her knees and buried her face in my cleavage, yanking on the cups of my bra to get them out of her way. Eventually she made enough room to take one of my nipples into her mouth and circle it with her tongue.

I finally dared to run a hand through her silky-soft hair as I cradled her head against me, eyes still wide in disbelief as I watched her perfect white teeth scrape against my nipple.

She gasped and clutched at me as if she were the one half-naked and being devoured by her crush. As if just having her mouth on me was almost more than she could bear.

I couldn’t get enough of the rasp in her voice, the little choked-off groans every time I made a noise of my own. She licked and bit and sucked like a madwoman, switching back and forth from one breast to the other just when I thought I couldn’t take any more.

She was getting firmer and firmer with her touches, until she finally hit the perfect amount of pressure and my hips bucked.

“Yes,” she muttered around a mouthful of my right tit, staring up at me as if one more reaction from me would be enough to push her over the edge.

I whimpered, and that seemed to make her even wilder. She trembled against me, and then her nails scraped across my lower back as she slid her hand down to grab my ass.

My knees shook under the onslaught. All the moisture that had fled my dry mouth had apparently migrated between my legs, because I was dripping wet and aching to be touched. I’d never been so wet in my life, and I somehow still had most of my clothes on.

The contrast between her current behavior and the way she was dressed somehow made it even hotter—her wild, desperate need while still fully clothed in her lawyerly best. She was even wearing her pearls that day. I could see the smears of her dusky pink lipstick around my nipples, a tiny streak of mascara that had run when she cried.

Then her other hand came up to press against the crotch of my pants and I jerked into her touch, cursing softly.

She looked up at me with wild, dazed eyes. “You’re so wet,” she said.

“For you. You did this to me.”

That did it. She put both shaking hands to work on my belt buckle and had my pants undone and around my ankles before I even knew what was happening.

Then she saw the enormous wet spot on my underwear and let out another of those deep groans. Her hands clenched and swayed in front of her—trying to keep herself from reaching out?

“Katherine, can I please—oh, Lord help me—please!”

Quaking with need, I scrambled to shove my soaked boyshorts down my legs and spread my thighs for her as much as my pants would allow.

It was hardly the ideal position for it, but she dove straight for my pussy anyway. I was so wet that her face was glistening within a few seconds, and I felt myself clench at the sight. I couldn’t stop staring at the rapturous look on her face. It was almost as arousing as the way she touched me.

“You look so good,” I whispered hoarsely. “Please make me come. I want to come for you.”

She moaned around me and pressed my hips against the wall with her hands, presumably trying to keep me upright.

It worked—barely. My whole body was trembling now, desperate for relief after this crazy afternoon.

She ate me with complete focus—the same single-minded dedication that she devoted to her work—and it was hotter than it had any right to be. I stared at her slick mouth and smeared lipstick in disbelief as she lapped at me with near-feverish intensity.

Then my legs shook as she finally wrapped her lips around my clit and started to suck.

“Oh fuck, Sharon, I’m gonna come.”

Sharon glanced up at me with a look so hot I felt it all the way to my bones. I couldn’t believe this was happening, that it was really her between my legs, giving me the first orgasm I’d ever had with another person.

I came with a quiet cry not even thirty seconds later, and she kept me standing somehow, her unblinking eyes locked on my face as I jerked and twitched through the best climax of my young life.

“Damn,” I said weakly. “That was…wow.” And then, because I was an idiot and still pretty loopy, I thoughtlessly added “It really is better when someone else does it.”

Sharon’s face fell sharply. “What do you—Katherine, you’ve never…? This was—oh God.”

“It’s fine,” I said, concerned about how pale she’d suddenly gone. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad it was you.”

This had the opposite effect from what I’d intended. She buried her face in her hands and let out a quiet sob, her shoulders heaving as she tried to get herself under control.

Concerned that I’d screwed up a good thing, I quickly knelt to comfort her. I almost tipped over due to my pants still being around my ankles and my legs being made of jelly, but I managed to slide down the wall and catch myself on her shoulders.

I hesitantly wrapped my arms around her. “Shh,” I said, stroking her hair when she showed no resistance to being hugged. “It’s okay. We’re okay. I probably should have told you earlier, but no harm done.”

She wiped her wet cheeks with her hands and shot me a disbelieving look. “You can’t tell me you always dreamed of your first time being in a file closet at your workplace.”

“Well, maybe not my first time,” I admitted. “But I did fantasize about a few very similar scenarios. This is one of the few private spaces in the building.”

She chuckled hoarsely and then her mouth twisted into an expression of self-recrimination as she pulled her handkerchief out again. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to ever look your parents in the eye again. I can’t believe I just—”

She shook her head, still teary-eyed. “You would be within your rights to sue me, you know. Open and shut case of sexual harassment.”

“Sharon, did you forget about the part where I told you I was wet for you and begged you to make me come?”

Her face turned so red so quickly that I almost laughed. I might have, if she hadn’t been so clearly mortified.

She wiped off her mouth hastily and put the handkerchief back in her jacket pocket, avoiding eye contact the whole time.

“You didn’t do anything that I didn’t want,” I said. “I would do it again in a heartbeat. I don’t regret it, okay? And you shouldn’t either.”

Her mouth tugged into a brief frown as she rose to her feet, extending her hand to help me stand as well.

“I always regret it.” She pulled her hand away and looked over her shoulder at the door, letting out a big sigh.

A light bulb went on above my head. “Wait, this is a religious thing, isn’t it?”

Sharon bowed her head, half-turning away from me.

“We did nothing wrong,” I insisted as I stooped to pull my pants and underwear up. “We’re both single, and we both consented, so we did nothing wrong. I know you don’t believe that, but I do. I’m not ashamed. And I hope one day you won’t be either. You should be able to love women and god at the same time. And if your god doesn’t like that, maybe you should look for a new one.”

Sharon stared at me with a sort of scandalized fascination. “I wish it were that easy.”

Then she accidentally let her gaze slip to my uncovered breasts and blushed again, jerking her gaze upward.

“Wait a few minutes before you leave,” she murmured, carefully not watching me resituate my bra and button my shirt back up.

And then she was gone.