All Work No Play!

Gianna Dior's losing it. Boss just emailed the whole floor—no office romances, no exceptions. She swears someone leaked their secret. Every email is the axe dropping. Autumn sits on the desk, calm as ever. No one knows a damn thing, she says. The boss is gone for three days in Denver. Gianna's knuckles are white around her phone when Autumn grabs her wrist and pulls her in. No more talking. Autumn's mouth hits the soft spot under Gianna's ear, teeth grazing skin while one hand slides under that tight pencil skirt. Fingers push aside soaked silk, finding her already slick and twitching. Gianna tries to argue, but the words die when two fingers sink deep and slow, thumb circling her clit in the same rhythm that makes her hips jerk. Autumn works her open with patient, dirty patience, curling, pressing, until Gianna's biting her own lip raw to stay quiet. When she finally comes, it's sharp and quiet, thighs shaking against the desk, skirt bunched at her waist. Autumn doesn't stop. She keeps her hand moving, drawing out every last tremor, then drops to her knees and buries her tongue where her fingers just were, licking through the mess until Gianna grabs her hair and grinds against her mouth, chasing the second wave already building. Tension bleeds out with every lick, every moan muffled against Gianna's thigh, until all that's left is sweat, lipstick smudges, and two women who just don't give a damn about HR right now.