Chapter Text
The meeting drones on and you try your absolute hardest to look remotely interested in the yearly fiscal report. The New York landscape hums outside and you glance out the window often, pen drumming the table, lips in your teeth.
"Are we keeping you awake?" the head of accounting stares at you across the table.
"Yes." you clear your throat and send her an apologetic glance, "Please, continue."
She holds her stare for a moment, annoyed beneath the glossy exterior of her polite smile. Quickly the meeting whirs away again with everyone jotting numbers down pretending to give a damn whilst she flips through her presentation.
"...so as you can see we're up seven points from where we were last quarter and with the market inflation drawing in from our European territories-"
"Pause." you lift your hand, boredly flicking through the twenty slides left in the hand out. "Clarke, grateful as I am for your thoroughness, can you sum this up in fifty words or less so we can all go back to whatever the hell it is we'd rather be doing."
"Excuse me?" she snorts, glaring at you with a hand on her hip.
Everyone treats your brashness with a thin manicure of respect, everyone except Clarke. On your best days you know it's why you hired her in the first place and on your worst it tempts you to send her packing. Today is a good day, you gloatingly smirk at her little outburst and temper the corners of your mouth inside the rim of your teeth.
"My wife is an impatient woman, Clarke, and she won't be pleased with me if I'm home a minute later than six, which means I won't get to be pleased tonight either… if you catch my drift." you grin and earn stifled chuckles from the staff flanking the boardroom table.
"Your wife is no concern of mine." Clarke shrugged, turning back to her powerpoint.
"Be that as it may… last time I checked I still own this company and bankroll everyone's salary, so, I'm going to need you to hurry this up."
Clarke snapped around, eyes alight, beautiful and quietly furious at the way you exert your tiny powerplays. "Fine…" she dropped the marker pen on the table and crossed her arms. "Money good. Debt bad. Lexa stupid. Clarke not paid enough. Market good. Company accounts good. Lexa stupid, did I already mention that?"
You thoughtfully jot down her points and push the bridge of your glasses up your nose, "Yep," you glance up and double check your list of points. "I noted that."
"Good." she exhaled and glanced at the staff who lined the table between you both. "You can all leave."
You're certain all twelve of the head of departments exhale at the same time in relief, packing away their Macbooks and papers, scurrying out the door. You stand up and join them, trying desperately to get out the room before she tests your patience again.
"Not you." Clarke says into the air, closing down her laptop.
You release a sigh and roll your eyes.
"What can I do for you, Miss Griffin?"
"Close the door." you oblige her.
You catch a glimpse of black stocking as she bends to unplug her charger. It slips her thigh beneath the material of her grey pencil skirt and you resist the urge to arch your neck and appraise her further. You shouldn't look, you know you shouldn't, but her thighs are delicious and watching her pound around the office in pencil skirts and Louboutin heels certainly helps put up with her temper.
"Don't ever embarrass me in front of my staff again."
"You mean my staff?" you clear your throat, sorely missing the sight of her stockings as she snaps up from behind the table and stares you out.
"No, I don't mean you staff." she almost hisses, nose flaring, teeth set into her expression. "Who keeps track of those idiots so they hit their targets?" she asks and steps forward.
"You do."
"That's right. And whose team manages the advertisers and makes sure they pay up on the first of every month?" she takes another step closer.
"Er, yours?"
"Correct." she nods, "And who, Mrs Woods, is the boss of you when your wife isn't around?" she closes the distance and presses her thigh between your legs.
Gasping, blushing, neck craning over your shoulder to check no one can see your indiscretions, you swallow and bite your mouth. "You are." you admit quietly, neck rolling as she digs her thighs further into the crotch of your trousers.
"You're a bad girl, do you know that?" she mutters and scolds you.
"I think we both know you're kind of into that."
"Get on your knees." she demands, and you do as you're told.
The heat creeps up the back of your neck the way it always does when these little games are afoot. What if you're caught? What if someone says something? You arch your neck to check if the doors locked but her fingers quickly catch your chin.
"Nope." she warns you. "Eyes on me."
You exhale, "We shouldn't do this… I'm married." you swell in the acknowledgement of it.
"Does your wife take control of you like this?" she tilts her head, wrapping her fingers into the back of your long dark hair.
"No."
"I see," she says thoughtfully, "and so you have to wear the pants all of the time?"
"Yes."
"That must be so boring for you." Clarke pouts and kicks your knees open. "Do you love her?"
"She's the queen of my universe."
Clarke smiles at that, breaks character for a moment, lips turning up into sloping grin that she reclaims quickly with a thin veneer of leering dominance. "Do you love me?"
"I do." you admit and dance fingers up her knees. She swats them away. "Put your hands behind your back." you do as you're told.
Clarke inches closer, tightening the grip on the back of your hair and pulling your forward into her thighs. "Put your hands up my skirt and tell me what's missing, Lexa."
You shouldn't do this and yet you can't stop yourself. Clarke is divine, dainty and petite and tailored in all the ways that set your arousal off, and assured in herself and bossy and dominant in all the ways that so wrongfully excite you.
With a lick of your dry lips, you slip your hands up her knees and glide over the thin material of her stockings, eventually you come to the middle of her thigh, the lace around each pair tickles your palm and your fingertips follow each suspender up to the satin belt holding them up. She gloatingly smirks whilst you explore beneath her pencil skirt, nose pressed into her center, hot breath reaching through the material.
Eventually your fingers traipse back down and you moved inwards around the inside of her thighs, feeling the soft bare skin slip over your fingers as smooth as oil. You bite the bullet, work up the confidence and simultaneously bury your guilt for enjoying these pleasures, slipping your hand against her vulva.
You gasp, close your eyes and feel yourself ruin your underwear.
"What am I not wearing, Lexa?"
"Panties." you choke.
"Are you going to kneel there or get to work?" she dares you, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow as your fingers run backwards and forwards, gathering her slick arousal.
You hike the skirt up and pull her into you, her stocking-covered thighs practically straddling the shoulders of your suit jacket as you set to work and run your tongue through her intoxicating sweetness. She gasps at how painfully gentle you are, fingers rolling themselves into the locks of your hair, groaning and whispering dirty little things about how naughty you are.
Her clit stiffens against your tongue, smirking and prideful in the knowledge of what she likes, you graze your teeth so gently across her sensitive bud and feel her pussy quiver and flex in response. She whimpers and it's sinful how aroused you are.
"I'm going to cum right in your mouth." she growls and bucks against your tongue.
You grin at that and suck her into your mouth like juice running from the bite of a peach, the hotness of your mouth enveloping her lips and flushed pinkness until the thighs that clamp your cheeks start to hurt your jaw.
Your bury yourself in her folds, licking and sucking every hot drop of nectar until you feel the quake erupt inside of her, the tremble of her gut, the clamp of her thighs, the snap of her hips, the sinful moan of her climax, the sting as she takes a handful of hair and wrenches your head back so she can fill your mouth with her slickness like she promised.
"Good girl." she cooes and recovers, smoothing your hair out of your face. "Don't ever try me in a fiscal meeting again." she warns you and cups your cheeks, leaning down to kiss your slick-coated mouth.
"God you're beautiful." you groan and lean to kiss her again.
She pulls away from you, tidying away the remnants of her dishevelled appearance until once again her blouse is tucked in and her skirt is just above the knee and the tiny glimpse of her stockings is all you're allowed. "Sorry." she shrugs and moves back around the table for the snakeskin briefcase you bought her a few months ago, "I have to get home, my wife's getting back early tonight."
"You're married?" you raise a brow.
"I am." Clarke sighs and grins.
"To who?"
"The most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life." she reassures you with an answer that's not entirely an answer. "And yes, before you ask, I love her more than life itself… so don't even go there."
"Okay." you smile and nod.
As quickly as the game began, it comes to an end the moment Clarke rushes out the office for the five o'clock subway ride to her place in Greenwich Village. Occasionally you left work early enough to bump into her on the subway home, sometimes you spoke and sometimes you just sat beside one another in a strangely comfortable silence as the carriage jolted along the tracks. Tonight wouldn't be one of those nights though, there was still editorial to sign off on before you'll allow yourself to go home for the night.
It takes you forty minutes to blast through it all, nectar still lingering in your mouth, the ghost memory of her hot slickness riding your tongue, you try not to think about it but it replays over and over again as you sign each cover. The way she rode your mouth, the way she took your hair, the confidence in her eyes, the assured coolness of her demeanor.
You're always in control of everything, your wife was the one to point that out, along with other facts like you're uptight and anal and staunch and always… worrying too much. It was what you did best. But with Clarke around in the office, divine and assured as she was, there was no worrying because she was the one who called the shots and god, she never let you forget about it.
You had the towncar take you to your apartment fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Nervous and guilty as you were, you spent the whole ride fiddling with your appearance, touching and balancing each button on your shirt and desperately checking for any lipstick stains on your clothes. The journey was shorter than what you'd like, you hoped the mundane traffic and life blaring from the busy sidewalks would distract you enough to dissipate your lingering arousal thought it barely soothed you in the slightest, still drunk on the encounter.
Your wife is already busy with dinner when you slip inside.
"Hi honey," she grins and slips over the marble, work outfit replaced with comfortable sweats. "how was your day?" she purred and jumped into your arms.
"Good." you smile and deepen the kiss, hands slipping beneath her hips to hold her up. She tastes the same, smells the same too, but she's softer now. "God, you're so beautiful." you furrow and almost complain, appraising her adoringly as her tight thighs wrap the waist of your suit jacket. "How was your day, Baby?"
"Could have been better." she sighed, nuzzling her nose into your neck. "My jackass boss interrupted my fiscal presentation again."
"Did you put her back in her place?" you whisper knowingly with a smirk.
Clarke jumped down from your hips and smoothed her fingers over your buttons, grinning and loving every inch of you. "Yeah… you could say that."