Working Late

Whitney sits at her desk, skirt hitched, phone angled beneath her. The flash paints a brief white flare between her thighs. One tap sends it. Eliza looks up from her own screen. Her phone vibrates, and the same grin spreads across her face. She answers by sliding her chair back, lifting the hem of her skirt, and snapping a picture of her own. Whitney stands. She crosses the narrow space between their desks and leans in close enough that her lips brush Eliza’s ear. "I can’t wait to meet your parents this weekend," she whispers. Eliza hisses at her to be quiet, reminding her they aren’t supposed to discuss anything personal here. Whitney chuckles, says the boss is passed out in the back office after a wild night, and they’ve got the floor to themselves for hours. Eliza’s blouse is already undone before she can argue. Buttons clatter softly onto the carpet. Whitney’s mouth finds a bare breast; Eliza’s hand slips under Whitney’s waistband. They undress each other piece by piece, the fabric pooling on the floor, then climb onto Eliza’s desk. A quick glance at the closed door, then Whitney pushes Eliza’s thighs apart and tastes her. Eliza bites her lip, fingers tangled in Whitney’s hair, hips rocking in short, careful motions. When Eliza returns the favor she keeps one ear cocked toward the hallway, tasting Whitney in quiet, wet strokes while both girls fight to keep the moans low. The risk of footsteps keeps them sharp, but the need keeps them moving, and every stolen lick makes the risk feel worth it.