𝕮𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖊 𝕾𝖒𝖚𝖑𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝕴𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘

Office Sex | M.H.

[Smut]

You slipped into Maria Hill's office at 1400 hours sharp, the ceramic mug warm against your palm, steam rising in lazy spirals that carried the dark, bitter scent of her favorite Ethiopian roast. The door sealed behind you with a hushed pneumatic sigh, cutting off the distant murmur of agents and machinery. Up here the world felt smaller, quieter, contained entirely within the long glass desk, the bank of glowing monitors, and the woman seated in the tall black leather chair like it had been carved specifically for her spine.

Maria didn't look up immediately. Her fingers moved across the keyboard in precise, economical taps. The uniform jacket hung open just enough to reveal the crisp white shirt beneath, the top button undone—a rare concession to the heat of the room or perhaps to the memory of last night's teeth marks still hidden under the collar. Her ponytail sat high and tight, not a strand out of place, yet you knew exactly how it looked when you tugged the elastic free and buried your fingers in the dark waves.

You set the coffee down with deliberate care, letting your knuckles graze the back of her hand. The contact lasted one heartbeat longer than necessary. Her typing paused for the space of a single keystroke.

"Thanks," she said. The word came out even, professional. But her eyes flicked to yours—steel meeting heat—and held there a fraction too long before returning to the screen.

You didn't retreat to the visitor's chair. Instead you circled the desk slowly, hips swaying just enough that the hem of your skirt brushed your thighs with every step. Maria's peripheral vision tracked you; you could tell by the way the muscle at the corner of her jaw ticked once.

"Long morning?" you asked, voice low, conversational, as though you hadn't spent the entire elevator ride picturing the exact shade her cheeks would flush when she finally broke.

"Interminable." She took a sip of coffee. You watched the slow glide of her throat, the way her lips pressed briefly to the rim before pulling away, leaving a faint, perfect crescent of burgundy lipstick. "Prague is still a mess. The Council wants a full brief in forty minutes."

You stopped directly behind her chair. Close enough that she would feel the warmth radiating off your body, the faint citrus-and-cedar of your perfume mingling with the coffee steam. You rested both hands on the high backrest, thumbs brushing the leather just above her shoulders. She didn't flinch. She didn't lean into it either. Not yet.

"Drink your coffee, Director," you murmured, lips near the shell of her ear. "Before it cools."

Her next breath came shallower. You watched gooseflesh rise along the exposed strip of skin at her nape. She lifted the mug again, but her grip on the handle looked almost too careful, as though she were afraid of betraying the tremor you already knew was building inside her.

You sank to your knees without warning, the thick charcoal carpet muffling the movement. Maria's thighs tensed under the tactical skirt the instant your palms settled on her knees. You slid your hands upward, slow, savoring the heat of her skin through the thin black stockings, the subtle flex of muscle as she fought the instinct to clamp her legs together.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The words were a hissed whisper, barely louder than the air vents. But she didn't close her knees. She didn't stand. Instead her hips shifted—just a fraction—enough to give you room.

You hooked your fingers under the hem of her skirt and eased it higher, inch by torturous inch, until black lace came into view. The same pair from last weekend: delicate, sheer in places, already damp at the center. You traced the scalloped edge with one fingertip, feeling her shiver travel all the way up her spine.