Pushing His Limits

Bree's been thinking about this for months. She blames the catholic school she left years ago, but every time her boss raises his voice she feels heat between her legs. Today the house is quiet. She set up her laptop at his kitchen table like always, skirt short, blouse loose. Mick's shoulders are tight. Numbers aren't adding up and he's been rubbing the back of his neck since nine. Bree waits until he stretches and sighs, then she stands, walks behind him, and rests her hands on those shoulders. The moment her thumbs press in, he exhales through his teeth. She slides closer, lets her chest brush his back, and leans down to whisper that she knows exactly what he needs. His hand finds her thigh. He squeezes, testing. She doesn't pull away. He stands, turns, and she drops to her knees without a word. His belt comes undone fast. She opens her mouth and takes him deep, nose pressed to his stomach until tears sting. He grips her hair, pushes further, then yanks her up and bends her over the table. Her skirt is flipped, panties torn aside. He drives in from behind, hips slapping skin, one hand on her neck to keep her still. When her knees buckle he flips her onto her back, lifts her legs, and keeps going until she's dripping down her thighs. He pulls out at the last second, paints her face, hot streaks across her lips and lashes. She licks her mouth clean while he watches, chest still heaving.