She Needs I.T. Bad

Anna Claire Clouds was hunched over her keyboard when the phone rang. Her boss, with that fake-smooth voice of his, told her she needed to give the big pitch in the morning. She swallowed hard and said yes. Nervous didn’t even cover it. She called IT right away. A few minutes later Penelope Kay pushed the door open. Anna looked up and forgot her own name. Penelope wasn’t some older tech guy—this woman was young, tattoos, tight black jeans and a smirk already working at the corner of her mouth. Heat flicked low in Anna’s stomach. They opened PowerPoint together, shoulders almost touching, hot breath mixing while they typed and arranged images. Penelope’s hand would brush Anna’s whenever she clicked the mouse; each touch sparked like static under skin. She kept her voice low, talked Anna off the ledge every time the intern started doubting herself. By the time they saved the file, Anna had forgotten to breathe properly. Then the file choked, blinked red, and vanished. Anna felt like someone punched her in the ribs. “It’s gone,” she whispered, panic rising. Penelope moved in close, palms steady on Anna’s shoulders. “You know this thing by heart. You just recited every slide while we made it. You don’t need it.” Air came back into Anna’s lungs. The fear slipped away. All that was left was the heavy, dangerous pull between them. Penelope stepped toward the door, but Anna caught her wrist and dragged her into a clumsy, desperate kiss. She jerked back, cheeks burning. Penelope answered with her own mouth, slower, certain, lips tasting faintly like cherry gum. Clothes came off fast—Anna’s blouse tossed, Penelope’s tee dragged overhead. Bras flicked open. Anna’s skirt hiked up while Penelope slid her panties down. They cleared a spot on the desk with one sweep of the arm, papers fluttering like pigeons. Penelope hoisted Anna onto the wood, cool against fevered skin. She spread Anna’s thighs, sank two fingers deep. Anna gasped, knuckles white on the edge. Penelope’s mouth was everywhere—biting, licking, sucking her clit until Anna’s legs trembled. Anna yanked her down, needing more, until Penelope climbed onto the desk, straddling her. They ground against each other, slick and urgent, hips rolling in messy sync. Sweat slid down Anna’s spine. Penelope whispered filthy encouragement in her ear—“Fuck, so wet for me”—and Anna moaned loud enough to echo down the empty corridor. They kept working at the desk, just not in the way they planned, until the world narrowed to fingers, tongues, and the wet slap of skin against wood.