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Entry tags:
abc prompts; k+s: office romance
"Shane's here with those reports," the intercom chirped, and Kirsten felt her heart leap. Before she answered, she stole a glance at the clock. She had a meeting in half an hour. Plenty of time.
Pressing the intercom button, she said, "Send him in," and made sure to sound simply resigned to the idea of seeing him, instead of ecstatic.
He looked resigned, himself, when he came in, papers in one hand and flash drive in the other, and she wondered suddenly if he wasn't here to see her. Did he actually have reports for her?
He tossed the flash drive on her desk, eyes glued to whatever it was he was reading, and said absently, "Spending reports for the Costa Rica office."
That's right. She'd asked him to look into that, hadn't she? It was difficult to hide her disappointment; for once, she was glad he wasn't looking at her.
"Thank you." She trapped the drive under her fingers and slid it across the desk to herself. Plugging it in, she turned her attention to her laptop. Refocusing wasn't easy, either, when she'd already let herself be derailed by fantasies of being draped over her desk and kissed senseless, but she'd manage. Kirsten had always had a mind for work.
And it looked like there was plenty in the spending reports to keep her occupied, too. Someone down in Costa Rica was keeping a bar tab on their company card — and the names of at least two ritzy hotels jumped out at her down the list. As if anyone working in the Costa Rican office wasn't making enough money to pay for their affairs on their own, she thought with a quiet scoff, and rolled her eyes.
The motion was aborted when her gaze caught on Shane again, still standing in front of her desk. He'd lowered the papers by now and was watching her, eyes dark behind his glasses and — amused. Kirsten felt her figurative hackles rise.
"What?" she demanded. The word set off a spark and he laughed.
"I can't believe you're still sitting behind that desk," he answered, looking back at the file in his hand. "This has to be a record. I've been in here almost a minute."
She shouldn't give him the satisfaction, she knew. He'd be insufferably smug for at least five minutes if she gave in now. But he was standing there with a hip resting against her desk, deliciously trim in a charcoal grey and black number, and they had nearly half an hour to themselves. It was such a rare treat, she couldn't resist.
Throwing her pride to the wind, she shut her laptop and stood, making her way around the desk. He was still playing at reading those papers, and she considered snatching them out of his hand, but decided it might be better to make him put them down, himself. Maybe he'd even drop them. The thought made her heart flutter.
He raised his eyes but not his head as she drew near, and remained compliant but non-engaging while she slid her arms around his neck. He couldn't help touching her, though; his hand found her hip and squeezed lightly. She felt a twinge of triumph, which only grew when he leaned down to meet her.
The feeling was quickly overpowered by the way her heart hammered her ribcage. She opened her mouth to him, drew him down tighter with her arms around his neck and was rewarded by the sound of the papers hitting the desk just a second before he wrapped her up.
They were always quick to spiral out of control. Things were changing, though — she hadn't missed the gradual ingress of affection. Their touches were longer, their smiles more frequent, their kisses sweeter. She didn't think she minded, and she didn't think he did, either. She'd have to ask him to dinner soon, before he could beat her to it. A traditionalist like Shane would have to protest.
But stolen moments were to be lived fast, and this was no exception. He turned their bodies to put her back against the desk, and lifted her the scant few inches it took to seat her on the edge. A skirt might have made this encounter even better, she thought. Maybe she'd have to retool her work wardrobe.
Her fingers found skin, nails scratching lightly into the hair at the nape of his neck and then roaming upward. His hair was incomprehensibly soft. She twisted it around her fingers and tugged, and he murmured assent into her mouth before breaking away, scattering kisses down her throat. Kirsten tilted her head back.
The ceiling was all fluorescent lights and stucco, and she closed her eyes, concentrating on every point of contact: his hands stealing up inside her vest and over the open edge of her shirt, cool fingers tracing her collarbone, warm mouth leaving cold trails down her jugular, teeth catching skin and —
"Don't," she warned, tugging at his hair again when she felt the burn of a mark starting to form. He laughed into her throat. The sound threatened to undo her, so she hooked a leg behind his and pulled him in. This time, he exhaled, soft and breathless, and that little thrill of victory returned.
She wanted more. Dragging her hands down, she pushed his jacket off his shoulders, worked down the buttons of his shirt. It was half-undone when the intercom buzzed again.
"Steven called; he wants to move your meeting up to eleven-fifteen," her secretary said.
Kirsten leaned back, trying to see the clock on the desk behind her. Shane's forehead came to rest on her shoulder.
"It's eleven-ten," he said, sounding rueful. Kirsten swore quietly.
"I have to. If I push the meeting back, it'll be —"
"Two weeks before he can fit you in again, I know." Shane pulled away and looked at her. She was sure she looked apologetic. She felt apologetic.
He seemed to consider her for a moment before leaning in again. This kiss was softer, quicker, sweeter — an apology, or maybe a promise. She wanted to chase after him when it ended, but didn't. Instead, she hit the intercom.
"Tell him eleven-twenty and he'll like it," she said, and slid off the desk. Her secretary's chuckle and 'yes, ma'am' faded fast into the background when Shane took hold of her wrist.
"Hey."
She looked up at him, impossibly hopeful. (For what, she didn't know, but something. Her heart was soaring and he was looking at her with that almost-smile and she really didn't want to go to this meeting.)
"Friday night," he said, "if you think you can fit me in." There was something tongue-in-cheek about that last remark. "I'll take you to dinner."
(That. That was what she was hoping for. The flutter in her stomach confirmed it.)
"You beat me to it," she murmured, trying to find a way to tear her eyes from his.
His almost-smile morphed into a smirk, and he let go of her wrist, picking up the papers from the desk. "I know," he said, and slipped his free hand into his pocket as he strolled out.
Kirsten breathed out slowly, sinking into her chair. If she had to lose, she guessed, this wasn't a bad way to go. It sure felt a lot like winning.
Pressing the intercom button, she said, "Send him in," and made sure to sound simply resigned to the idea of seeing him, instead of ecstatic.
He looked resigned, himself, when he came in, papers in one hand and flash drive in the other, and she wondered suddenly if he wasn't here to see her. Did he actually have reports for her?
He tossed the flash drive on her desk, eyes glued to whatever it was he was reading, and said absently, "Spending reports for the Costa Rica office."
That's right. She'd asked him to look into that, hadn't she? It was difficult to hide her disappointment; for once, she was glad he wasn't looking at her.
"Thank you." She trapped the drive under her fingers and slid it across the desk to herself. Plugging it in, she turned her attention to her laptop. Refocusing wasn't easy, either, when she'd already let herself be derailed by fantasies of being draped over her desk and kissed senseless, but she'd manage. Kirsten had always had a mind for work.
And it looked like there was plenty in the spending reports to keep her occupied, too. Someone down in Costa Rica was keeping a bar tab on their company card — and the names of at least two ritzy hotels jumped out at her down the list. As if anyone working in the Costa Rican office wasn't making enough money to pay for their affairs on their own, she thought with a quiet scoff, and rolled her eyes.
The motion was aborted when her gaze caught on Shane again, still standing in front of her desk. He'd lowered the papers by now and was watching her, eyes dark behind his glasses and — amused. Kirsten felt her figurative hackles rise.
"What?" she demanded. The word set off a spark and he laughed.
"I can't believe you're still sitting behind that desk," he answered, looking back at the file in his hand. "This has to be a record. I've been in here almost a minute."
She shouldn't give him the satisfaction, she knew. He'd be insufferably smug for at least five minutes if she gave in now. But he was standing there with a hip resting against her desk, deliciously trim in a charcoal grey and black number, and they had nearly half an hour to themselves. It was such a rare treat, she couldn't resist.
Throwing her pride to the wind, she shut her laptop and stood, making her way around the desk. He was still playing at reading those papers, and she considered snatching them out of his hand, but decided it might be better to make him put them down, himself. Maybe he'd even drop them. The thought made her heart flutter.
He raised his eyes but not his head as she drew near, and remained compliant but non-engaging while she slid her arms around his neck. He couldn't help touching her, though; his hand found her hip and squeezed lightly. She felt a twinge of triumph, which only grew when he leaned down to meet her.
The feeling was quickly overpowered by the way her heart hammered her ribcage. She opened her mouth to him, drew him down tighter with her arms around his neck and was rewarded by the sound of the papers hitting the desk just a second before he wrapped her up.
They were always quick to spiral out of control. Things were changing, though — she hadn't missed the gradual ingress of affection. Their touches were longer, their smiles more frequent, their kisses sweeter. She didn't think she minded, and she didn't think he did, either. She'd have to ask him to dinner soon, before he could beat her to it. A traditionalist like Shane would have to protest.
But stolen moments were to be lived fast, and this was no exception. He turned their bodies to put her back against the desk, and lifted her the scant few inches it took to seat her on the edge. A skirt might have made this encounter even better, she thought. Maybe she'd have to retool her work wardrobe.
Her fingers found skin, nails scratching lightly into the hair at the nape of his neck and then roaming upward. His hair was incomprehensibly soft. She twisted it around her fingers and tugged, and he murmured assent into her mouth before breaking away, scattering kisses down her throat. Kirsten tilted her head back.
The ceiling was all fluorescent lights and stucco, and she closed her eyes, concentrating on every point of contact: his hands stealing up inside her vest and over the open edge of her shirt, cool fingers tracing her collarbone, warm mouth leaving cold trails down her jugular, teeth catching skin and —
"Don't," she warned, tugging at his hair again when she felt the burn of a mark starting to form. He laughed into her throat. The sound threatened to undo her, so she hooked a leg behind his and pulled him in. This time, he exhaled, soft and breathless, and that little thrill of victory returned.
She wanted more. Dragging her hands down, she pushed his jacket off his shoulders, worked down the buttons of his shirt. It was half-undone when the intercom buzzed again.
"Steven called; he wants to move your meeting up to eleven-fifteen," her secretary said.
Kirsten leaned back, trying to see the clock on the desk behind her. Shane's forehead came to rest on her shoulder.
"It's eleven-ten," he said, sounding rueful. Kirsten swore quietly.
"I have to. If I push the meeting back, it'll be —"
"Two weeks before he can fit you in again, I know." Shane pulled away and looked at her. She was sure she looked apologetic. She felt apologetic.
He seemed to consider her for a moment before leaning in again. This kiss was softer, quicker, sweeter — an apology, or maybe a promise. She wanted to chase after him when it ended, but didn't. Instead, she hit the intercom.
"Tell him eleven-twenty and he'll like it," she said, and slid off the desk. Her secretary's chuckle and 'yes, ma'am' faded fast into the background when Shane took hold of her wrist.
"Hey."
She looked up at him, impossibly hopeful. (For what, she didn't know, but something. Her heart was soaring and he was looking at her with that almost-smile and she really didn't want to go to this meeting.)
"Friday night," he said, "if you think you can fit me in." There was something tongue-in-cheek about that last remark. "I'll take you to dinner."
(That. That was what she was hoping for. The flutter in her stomach confirmed it.)
"You beat me to it," she murmured, trying to find a way to tear her eyes from his.
His almost-smile morphed into a smirk, and he let go of her wrist, picking up the papers from the desk. "I know," he said, and slipped his free hand into his pocket as he strolled out.
Kirsten breathed out slowly, sinking into her chair. If she had to lose, she guessed, this wasn't a bad way to go. It sure felt a lot like winning.