Son of Man by Rene Magritte (1946)
Her tone is flat. Matter-of-fact. The man inclines his head.
“Of course, Ms. Page. This way.”
She mutes her phone and puts it away as her assistant precedes her through the lobby. She is due to meet a client and that is, quite frankly, the last thing she wants to do. She is suffocating beneath good fortune and success – not that anyone can tell. Not that she lets it show. Only Sterling knows. Discrete, intelligent, Sterling. She trusts Sterling to know.
They move through the lobby to a set of adjacent halls. As they walk, he drops back to escort her. His deference is quiet, but real. Reliable. As solid as he is. He is so solid she can feel his hand at her back—close but not touching. Never touching. He never would. Not until she says.
“Turn left here, Ms. Page.”
Sterling rarely comes to this building, but he moves them through the halls as if there’s a map in his head. She smiles, enjoying his competence. It’s an intensely attractive trait.
“Will this do, Ms. Page?”
They’ve stopped at an alcove within the maze of halls. It’s quiet. Private. As private as one can expect.
“This will do.”
“May I, Ms. Page?”
She nods, impassive.
“Yes, Sterling. You may.”
She turns and presses her fingertips into the pale blue wall as he comes up behind her, shielding her from view. She angles her head and checks her watch.
“Now you have eight minutes.”
He nods, but does not rush as he draws her skirt up with his lovely, long-fingered hands. She loves his hands. She loves the way they look, whether he’s grasping his cock or making her tea. His hands are the distillation of him—sensitive, competent and intensely discreet. She knows his hands will do precisely what she needs.
She leans back, pressing the length of her spine against the length of his chest as he rests one hand on her hip and reaches the other into the hollow of her thighs. Then he allows her skirt to drape back down over his wrist. She sighs, soothed by the hard-on pressed against her ass and the fingers stroking the pretty lace she wishes she hadn’t worn.
“More.”
He nods and pushes the lace aside. He knows his role. He knows this moment isn’t precious. For now, his only function is to make her come.
Her hips rise to meet his fingers as they slip past the damp fabric and into the folds of her cunt. She’s plump and primed. Not in the mood for games.
“Sterling, there’s no time.”
“Yes, Ms. Page.”
His hand withdraws but she barely notices. He unbuckles his belt and unzips the fly of his charcoal gray suit. Then his cock is in her, thick and hard. Sterling is often hard. He knows that’s how she likes him best.
She moans, low and soft, as her body opens up, coating his cock and with a well of slick, wet juice. His breathing hitches as he fills her. He is struggling. He hasn’t come in over a week. But he sinks himself in, slow and deep, so she can feel every inch.
“Don’t fucking come.”
She doesn’t have to say it. She knows what he’ll say.
Of course, Ms. Page.
“Of course, Ms. Page.”
He reaches around and touches her clit. Lightly. Just enough. Then he stills so she can fuck herself on him. She thinks of his cock, so delicious and thick and veined that she wants to fill her mouth with it. His balls are so full she can practically feel the ache. She imagines him edging before he came, finding the itching balance between where his body wants to go and where she wants it to stay.
Her hips still and she works him with her muscles alone, letting her awareness sink into the walls of her pulsing cunt. When she comes, she comes hard. Gritty and hard, with a wail that can’t escape. She grabs his hand and shoves her face into his palm, sinking her teeth into his skin to keep from crying out. She knows she’ll leave a mark.
“Are you all right, Ms. Page?”
His voice was husky in her ear. Her entire body feels clean as she opens her eyes.
“Yes. Much better, thanks.”
He nods, but doesn’t move. She knows how hard it is for him. But then he slides his cock out of her soft, warm body and gently straightens her skirt. After a moment’s hesitation, he presses his cheek to hers.
She closes her eyes, and presses her palm against his flushed face.
“Edge until I get home.”
She turns and looks up at him. His face is blank but she can read it. What she sees there makes her grin.
“And cancel dinner tonight. I’d like to stay in.”
He smiles. It’s delicious. She can taste the curve of his mouth.
“Yes, Ms. Page. Of course.
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