⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆✼♡✽⋆∘∙⊱⋅•
Mr. Fairchild's weight lifted from my back, leaving me breathless, pinned against the desk with my cheek still pressed to the remaining scattered papers from our work.
The cool wood felt like a stark contrast to the heat he'd ignited everywhere else. His large, capable hands—those hands, oh my God! They gently gripped my shoulders, turning me around slowly until I faced him again.
I was already half-undressed, my shirt tossed aside, but he took his sweet time removing the rest, his fingers working the button of my trousers with a careful precision that felt oddly clinical, as if he was dissecting a problem instead of undressing his wayward assistant.
Not that I had a problem...no, siree!
