Big Surprise

Naomi's boss Mike kept giving her that sideways glance across the desk and after the third "accidental" brush in the copy room she couldn't ignore the pull anymore. She dropped the idea on me tonight while we fucked: her birthday wish, clear as day, a private meeting with Mike so he can hand out the workload raw and rough. Instead of flipping, some weird green spark hit me right in the chest. The same dirty curiosity runs both ways—her to his orders, me to watching. So next week he's coming by with spreadsheets that need aggressive adjusting and I told her we're leaving the blind shut half high so I get the show from the kitchen. She's nothing subtle about it, spreading herself across my favorite chair just the way she's been talking about since lunch—skirt hiked past the curve of her ass and blouse gaping like it rebelled for daylight. "Tell him how you want the overnight bags moved," she barks from across the week, still minx-locked and toe-pointed, and I know damn well she's dared me to shut it, dared him to go tactical. Order labeled implicit but pulsing loud enough to know his dick's passed the paperwork and is going straight to skin. Thunder chance tomorrow; let's not waste valuable bad-decision energy.