Secret Spring Fling

Clarke's jaw's tight while he tries to calm a client. Phone tucked to his ear, he keeps his voice steady until something moves at the window. Lola's face pops into view, one eyebrow cocked, tongue tucked in the corner of her mouth. When she ducks inside and sneaks up behind him, she slaps both hands over his eyes. Clarke jumps so hard the phone skids across the desk. His wife left five minutes ago. Before he can whisper her name, Lola spins the chair and plants a hot, open-mouthed kiss on him. Her tongue slides against his like she owns it. Clarke grunts, half protest, half surrender, eyes flicking toward the door like guilt just slapped him. She doesn't care. Her small hands are already sliding up his thighs, fingers unzipping him before he can form words. Tongue still in his mouth, she makes quick work of the belt, yanks his cock free, and wraps both fists around it. Clarke mutters something about age and weddings. Lola just smiles against his lips and pumps him faster. His breath goes ragged. She climbs onto his lap in one smooth motion, skirt bunched at her hips, panties pushed aside, and sinks down onto him. Wet heat swallows him whole. She rides hard and quiet, using his shoulders for leverage, her little hips slapping against his. Every thrust wrings another twitch out of Clarke until he finally grabs her waist and drives up into her, helpless, burying his face in her neck while the forgotten phone beeps its dead line on the floor.