The Last Signature on the Eleventh Floor

Working late on a rainy night, $name1 meets a delayed overseas client she has never seen before, and the contract ends up with a very private clause.

At eleven forty on a wet Thursday night, the only other person on the eleventh floor was a man $name1 had never seen in her life.

She had stayed late to finish the Hartwell proposal. The cleaners had been and gone, the open-plan floor was dark except for her desk lamp, and rain was streaking the tall windows over the city. $name1 was twenty-nine, tired, and in her stocking feet, with her heels kicked under the desk and her blouse unbuttoned one button further than the day required.

The lift pinged. She looked up, startled.

A man walked out of it shaking water from his coat. He was tall, dark-haired, thirty-eight or so, with a travel-creased suit and a leather folio under his arm and a face that looked like it had been awake for twenty hours.

“I am so sorry,” he said, with a soft accent she could not place. “The night guard let me up. I am Rafael Santos. I am supposed to sign the Hartwell contract tonight. My flight was delayed nine hours, and I have to be back at the airport at six.”

“Oh.” $name1 stood up. “Nobody told me. Mr Whitlock left the papers in his office.”

“Then I am afraid you are stuck with me.” He smiled, and the tiredness cracked into something warmer. “Rafael. Please.”

“$name1.” She shook his hand. His palm was warm and dry, and he held hers a second longer than he needed to.

She led him through the dark floor to Whitlock’s glass office, turned on the lamp, and found the contract in the top drawer. Rafael sat in the big leather chair and read each page while she stood beside him. She told herself she was not looking at his hands, or at the line of his jaw, or at the way his tie had been loosened and the top button of his shirt undone.

“You work very late,” he said, without looking up.

“Deadlines.”

“Deadlines,” he repeated, amused. “I have a theory about women who say that word at midnight. They are usually running from something.”

“And men who fly nine hours to sign a contract in person?”

“Running toward something. But I did not know what.” He finally looked up again, and let his gaze travel from her face to her open collar and back. “I think I might be finding out.”

Heat prickled up her neck. She laughed to cover it, and reached across him to straighten the pages, and her breast brushed his shoulder. Neither of them moved away. She could smell rain and aftershave and warm skin, and she was suddenly aware of how very quiet the whole building was.

“And you are not married to anyone who is waiting?”

“No.” The word came out lower than she meant. “Are you?”

“No.” He looked up at last. His eyes were dark brown and unhurried. “I think that is a good thing tonight.”

The rain drummed on the glass. The office was silent. He signed the last page with a flourish, capped the pen, and did not stand up.

“There is one more clause,” he said.

“I have read the contract. There is no other clause.”

“A private one.” He turned the chair to face her. “I have been in airports for fourteen hours, thinking about nothing. And then a woman in stocking feet and an open blouse looks up at me in the dark. I think I would like to kiss you, $name1. If that is not impolite.”

Her pulse hammered in her throat. She should have laughed it off. She should have called a taxi for him.

“It is very impolite,” she said, and stepped between his knees. “Do it anyway.”

He pulled her down onto his lap and kissed her, and it was nothing polite at all. His mouth was hot, his hands shoved into her hair, and she moaned and straddled him in the big leather chair, her skirt riding up her thighs. His tongue stroked hers. His hands slid down to her arse and dragged her against the hard ridge growing in his trousers.

“Close the blinds,” she gasped.

“No.” He kissed down her neck. “The floor is empty. Let the city watch.”

He unbuttoned her blouse with quick, clever fingers and pushed it off her shoulders. Her bra followed. When he took one breast in his mouth, sucking the nipple hard, she arched and cried out and ground herself down against his cock.

“You taste like rain,” he murmured, switching to the other. “I want all of you.”

“Then take it.”

He stood with her wrapped around him and set her on the edge of Whitlock’s enormous desk, scattering pens and papers. She yanked his shirt open and ran her hands over his chest, down the hard planes of his stomach, and he hissed as she opened his belt. He pushed her skirt up around her waist, hooked his fingers into her knickers and dragged them down her legs.

“Look at that,” he said, softly. “So pretty. And so wet.”

He sank to his knees on the carpet and pushed her thighs wide.

The first slow lick made her whimper. He licked her like he had all night, long strokes from entrance to clit, then fast flicks of his tongue on the swollen bud, then his lips closing around it and sucking gently. She fell back on her elbows, gasping, one foot braced on the arm of the chair.

“Rafael. Oh God. Right there.”

He pushed two fingers into her and curled them, finding the spot, and kept working her clit with his tongue. The sound of it, wet and filthy, filled the quiet office. She felt the pleasure gathering and gathering and then it broke, and she came with a shout, grinding her pussy into his mouth while he held her hips and drank her down.

He rose, his chin shining, and kissed her so she could taste herself. “Good?”

“You are going to fuck me on my boss’s desk,” she panted. “Right now.”

“That is the plan.”

He pushed his trousers and boxers down. His cock was long and thick, curved a little, the head dark and wet. She curled her hand around it and he groaned and dropped his head against her shoulder.

She sank off the desk onto her knees on the carpet. “You do not get to do all the work,” she said.

She wrapped both hands around his shaft and licked the head, slowly, tasting salt and heat. Rafael groaned and braced a hand on the desk. She took him into her mouth, inch by inch, lips stretched, tongue working under the ridge, and he swore softly in Spanish and tangled his fingers in her hair.

“Dios. Your mouth. Just like that.”

She hummed around him and bobbed faster, one hand stroking what she could not take, the other cupping his heavy balls. Spit ran down his length. When she looked up through her lashes and held his eyes, he shook, and gently, firmly, drew her off him.

“If you keep doing that, this will be over too soon,” he said hoarsely. “Up. I need to be inside you.”

He lifted her back onto the desk and she kissed him, tasting herself still on his lips.

“Condom,” she breathed. “In my bag, second drawer.”

He found it, rolled it on while she watched, and then lined himself up. He held her gaze and slid in, inch by slow inch, stretching her open, until his hips met hers and they both stopped breathing.

“Christ,” he said. “You are so tight.”

“Move,” she begged. “Please, move.”

He pulled back and thrust, and the whole desk shook. He set a deep, hard rhythm, hands under her thighs, her legs wrapped around his waist. She clung to his shoulders, nails raking his back, moaning with every stroke. Her breasts bounced. The leather blotter slid. A stapler hit the floor.

“Fuck me harder,” she said into his ear. “I want the whole floor to know.”

“Dirty girl.” He hammered into her, and she cried out. “You want everyone to hear you being fucked by a stranger?”

“Yes. Yes. Just like that.”

He pulled out suddenly, turned her around, and bent her over the desk with her cheek on the cool glass and her arse high in the air. His hand smacked her once, a sharp, stinging crack, and she yelped and pushed back against him.

“Again,” she said.

He spanked her again, harder, and then he drove back inside her from behind. This angle was deeper, rougher, his cock hitting somewhere that made her see stars. He fisted a hand in her hair, held her head up so she could see their reflection in the black window, and she watched her own face, wild and open-mouthed, while he fucked her.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Look how good you take it.”

“Oh God. I am going to come again.”

“Come on my cock.”

His fingers slid around her hip and found her clit, and she shattered. Her pussy clenched and fluttered around him, and she screamed, long and loud, into the empty floor, her whole body shaking. He swore in Spanish, slammed into her twice more, and then buried himself deep.

“$name1.” His voice broke. “I am coming.”

He shuddered against her back, spilling into the condom with long, helpless pulses, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades.

They stayed there for a long moment, panting, sweaty, her cheek still on the cold glass.

“The contract,” she said at last, shakily, “was very well drafted.”

He laughed against her back. “I never read the small print. Usually.”

He eased out, dealt with the condom, and helped her up on legs that did not want to work. They dressed slowly, kissing between buttons. Her blouse was wrinkled and her hair was wrecked, and he straightened her collar with tender, tired fingers.

“My flight is at six,” he said.

“Then you have a few hours.” She looked up at him, and the wickedness came back. “My flat is ten minutes away by taxi, and I have a very large bed.”

“And what about the proposal?”

“It can wait until morning.” She took his hand. “You are not the only one with a private clause, Mr Santos.”

He grinned and picked up his coat. They rode the lift down together in the quiet, hands interlaced, and the doors had barely closed before he had her pinned against the mirrored wall again, kissing her breathless all the way to the ground floor.