Mad Fuckers: Picking The Wrong Fights

Seth Gamble blocks Kylie's path after another fight lands her at his desk. He looks ready to burst – one wrong word and the whole place will hear him. Kylie just rolls her eyes and struts past like nothing happened. He grabs her wrist and tells her someday she'll pick the wrong girl to mouth off to and that girl won’t stop when her knuckles split. Kylie tells him to stop worrying; she can beat anyone. Especially a pencil pusher like him. He calls her bluff. She says if it comes to it, he’d be the first to tap. He moves fast, slips an arm around her neck, and squeezes. Her feet leave the ground, eyes bulging. She wheezes that she wasn’t ready, then elbows him in the ribs. He lets go but not the smirk. They circle in the tiny file room. Each grab turns tighter than the last, breath on each other’s neck, bodies sliding closer. Her hand darts out, snagging him by the belt to yank balance. She feels the solid ridge under his slacks. Heat rises in her cheeks but she grins. "Getting a bit stiff, counselor?" He laughs under his breath, spins her, and she lands bent over the open metal shelves. Boxes rattle to the floor. She shoves her hips back, grinds hard, testing. His palm splays across her shoulder blades, holding her there. Shorts and underwear drag down in one rough pull. He slams inside on the first thrust, forcing a choked shout out of her that turns into a throaty moan. She pushes off the wall, shoving him backward into the filing cabinet. Metal screeches. They slide to the ground tangled together. His hand fists her hair while she rides down onto him with teeth bared. He counters by bucking upward, slapping skin on skin so loud the empty hallway could probably hear. Neither gives an inch until bodies lock and seize at the same moment, shaking under a final, fierce push.