Just Another Office Party

“He's a smoke machine. Puts out the appropriate amount of gray to make things sexy and mysterious, but at the end of the day no one buys a smoke machine—you rent.”

In this moment, Shirley could tell me that Jaxton Cliffstone is a serial rapist wanted in thirteen states or that he has two giant hairy moles just above his junk or that he’d never do anything more than just hit-and-quit a girl like me. Seventeen thousand venomous words would wither in defeat at his glow.

I’d suck him off right here if he asked. Even better, if he demanded.

Down on my knees—no pillow—right next to the table with the punch bowl, chocolate crème cake, and the homemade pumpkin-bran cookies no one is eating, except Harriet. (Guess who made the cookies?) Another farewell party, number three this quarter. Just lemme get my mitts on Jaxton and I’ll give Fenwick Haberknackle a show more memorable than the boss’s monotonous speech or the gold-plated retirement watch tucked inside that goody bag. Hell, I’ll throw old Fennie a hand-job if it means I get Jaxton naked, at least from the waist down.

“Girl over in HR says he likes it snowballed back into his mouth. Gross, huh?” I don’t even register Shirley’s words anymore: her entirety has been rendered inconsequential.

Jaxton is doing his thing. Twisting the clip on his tie, a bit upward and downward before straightening it again. Even from across the room I can sense the hot pulse of his knuckles.

I undo the top button on my blouse and stride over, grab his shirt, lick an ear lobe before my whisper: “Meet me in the bathroom in two minutes, or I swear I’ll pee in the coffee pot all week.”


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