Personal Assistant's Personal Dilemma

Gal Ritchie hit send and her stomach dropped. That link. The filthiest video in her collection. Sent straight to her boss. Little Puck hadn't opened it. Not yet. She drove like a demon to her boss's place, heels in one hand, heart hammering. When Little Puck opened the door, Gal spun lie after lie—printer jam, urgent contract revision, some story about a hacker—each one landing flat. Nothing worked. Finally, she stopped pretending. Gal pressed her body close, lips brushing Little Puck's ear as her hand slid down her boss's waist. The air shifted. Little Puck didn't pull away. Instead, her breath caught, and her fingers curled into Gal's blouse. Gal kissed her slow, deep, deliberate, tongue flicking against the soft inside of Little Puck's lip. Little Puck moaned and pulled her closer, hips grinding forward, skirt riding up her thighs. Gal slipped her hand beneath it, found heat and slickness, and Little Puck gasped, thighs parting wider. They didn't make it to the bedroom. Gal pushed her boss against the hallway wall, fingers working in tight circles while Little Puck clawed at her clothes. Buttons popped. Zippers rasped. Gal's mouth traced down her boss's neck, teeth grazing skin, tongue dragging across her collarbone. She dropped to her knees, tugged Little Puck's panties aside, and buried her face between her legs. Little Puck shuddered, fingers twisted tight in Gal's hair, hips rocking against her tongue. Little Puck came hard, thighs trembling, slick running down Gal's chin. The laptop sat forgotten on the table behind them, screen still dark.