Emmie

Two hours. That was all the time I had to review the file before meeting with the prospective client. I had slammed and locked my office door before tossing the file on my desk. I needed to cool down, and I stared at the file for five full minutes before opening it. I didn’t have time for another new client. Word had already filtered through the office. Longbridge was a well-known sporting equipment company that had been around long before I was born. The rumors were that the new CEO, currently on Portland’s most eligible bachelor list, had glowered with glee at firing their last marketing firm. Great. Nothing to worry about there.

I couldn’t catch a break. The trouble started a week ago when Mom called, asking to move in with her latest boyfriend. I’m not sure how I deserved a free-spirited mom, a holdover from the hippy generation, who called almost every day to share a blow-by-blow review of her sex life. She never forgot to mention at the end of each call their need for a temporary place to stay while they searched for the perfect home. The search had been going on for several months. I didn’t even know what the two of them did for work.

Where Mom seemed to get by as a nomad, I worked hard for my kick-ass career in advertising. My barest ability to afford a four-bedroom home in the Southwest Hills of Portland did not mean I needed roommates. My eyes bled thinking about it.

After reviewing the files and running a few internet searches, I closed the file and glanced at the wall clock. The clock was the one item in the office that reflected my penchant for all things retro. It sported a sixties look, with long arms reaching from the center, ending in thin points, and it showed I had thirty minutes before the appointment.

My next glance darted to the office door. I was positive I had locked it against the snapping of nails on keyboards, laughter of coworkers, and the underlying tones of classical music drifting from the office speaker system. I gulped my already cooling latte, otherwise known as my lunch, kicked off my shoes, and swung my legs onto my desk. Plenty of time. I reached under my skirt. All I needed was a few minutes to relieve the tension headache working its way up the back of my neck.

I turned my head to the sofa and smiled. The image of the young barista from the lobby coffeeshop materialized in front of me with such clarity, I thought he was real. He lay butt naked with a hard-on that reached his belly button, pointing the way up his glossy, hairless stomach. Not an ounce of fat on that lean olive flesh. I followed the trail up to his boyish face, wearing a grin only the Devil could own. I rubbed a finger over my clit, opened my legs wider, and let my head fall back against the office chair. God, I love this chair.

Barista Boy appeared in front of me. His hooded eyes watched my fingers circle my clit, and he seemed to encourage me to slide them lower to pierce my wetness, returning to rub my hardening nub a little faster. He smiled and ran a tongue over his upper lip, teasing me, and I pinched my nipple through my white oxford shirt.

He grasped his cock, pulling up in long gradual strokes. He rolled his fingers over the tip as I would do with my tongue if I could. He ran his hand back down his shaft and nodded his chin toward me, encouraging me to continue.

I quickened my pace and caressed my mons, dipping down to circle a single finger around my clit, round and round. When the sweet ache spread slowly out from my center, I trailed my fingers along my wetness, slipping them in and out of me. I whimpered and returned to work my soft mound pulsating with delight. Barista Boy matched my pace, and my toes pointed heavenward, the sensations rippling through me. I massaged my breast to the rhythm of pleasure created by Barista Boy and my beautiful, beautiful hand.

Heat rose through me, and I was so wet, I burned for more, for someone else’s touch. Barista Boy leaned his body against the wall, and his muscles flexed. He turned his face to the ceiling, his lusciously lipped mouth open, eyes half closed. He no longer watched me, caught in his own rapture. I could almost hear his panting blending with my own. Aching for more, I increased the rhythm of my touch over my highly sensitive nub. An internal flame burned from my core and raced along my nerves, warm and tingly in my limbs.

Imagined moans from Barista Boy bounced off the office walls. An eruption like a tidal wave flooded over me. My head arched back, my body rising off the chair, my legs braced against the desk. The waves rolled over me until the crash of something hitting the floor broke through the ecstasy.

I fell back into the chair and dropped my legs to the floor. Barista Boy vanished. I was going to blush to my roots the next time I ordered coffee downstairs.

I crawled to the floor on shaky legs to pick up the pieces of a broken coffee cup. Thank God my latte wasn’t in it. I tossed the remnants in the trash and grabbed my foamy brew. I slurped it. Too cold. I shoved my daily addiction in the microwave perched on a small side counter. The best perk of this office. That, and the amazing view of downtown Portland, the Willamette River a shimmering backdrop.