The Interview

Kitty Queen walked into the glass office like she already owned it. She smoothed her skirt, gave the chair a quick once-over, then sat down with a grin that said try me. Nata Gold watched from behind her massive oak desk, chin on folded hands, looking every inch the woman who wrote the rules. “Impressive resume,” Nata said, voice smooth as single-malt whiskey. “You look good on paper.” Kitty crossed her legs so slowly the stocking whispered. “And off it,” she shot back. Nata’s eyes dropped for a second too long. Game on. Questions flew, each one naughtier than the last. “Tell me how you handle a demanding boss.” Kitty leaned forward, cleavage flashing like a secret. “I make demands right back.” The air between them thickened. Kitty felt the slick pull of wet lace against her and enjoyed the ache. Nata shifted in her seat, thighs pressed tight, fighting the urge to spread them and invite Kitty to look. Five flirty minutes later Kitty reached into her purse and flicked a crisp letter across the desk. Not a CV. Acquisition papers. Nata’s company, newly purchased, and the signature at the bottom spelled Kitty Queen. The temperature dropped, then rose fast enough to fog the windows. Nata stood up, skirt tight across her ass, control slipping. Kitty stayed seated, looking up with a smirk that said power had flipped. “Still want to finish the interview?” she asked. Nata licked her bottom lip. “Maybe we skip to benefits.” She came around the desk, hands already reaching for the buttons of her blouse. Kitty caught her wrists, tugged her forward until Nata straddled one stockinged thigh. Heat bloomed instantly. Nata ground down in tiny circles, the ridge of muscle against her slick panties dragging a helpless whimper out of her throat. Kitty flexed her quad, giving just enough friction to make Nata chase it. The executive who signed paychecks yesterday now chased an orgasm like rent was due. They kissed like a deal closing: tongues sharp, teeth claiming territory. Kitty slipped two fingers under Nata’s panties, found her drenched, slid inside with a wet sound that made them both groan. Nata rode those fingers, skirt bunched at her waist, nipples hard against silk. Every grind forced the digits deeper, curling against the spot that made stars flash behind her eyelids. Kitty added her thumb to Nata’s clit and the older woman shattered, biting Kitty’s shoulder to keep from screaming. Panting, Nata sank to her knees between Kitty’s spread legs, tugged soaked panties aside, and buried her tongue where it counted. Kitty’s fingers threaded through salon-blonde hair, guiding, praising, owning. Nata licked in long, filthy strokes, nose bumping Kitty’s swollen clit until Kitty bucked hard and flooded her mouth with a cry that rattled the glass. When it was over, they stayed tangled, breathing the same air, smirking at each other like co-conspirators. The interview was over. The real partnership had just begun.