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Only Kissing
by Savannah Stephens Smith © 2004



They were at her place, kissing.

She’d wriggled out of her jeans, he’d let her, though he didn’t want to fuck her—

It was all he’d wanted to do since spring, turbulent and yearning fuck her. His secretary.

Not yet. Instead, they were kissing. Mouths seeking, her long pink tee-shirt and her girlish white socks. No sillier than sitting there on the floor, the carpet a broader world to roll around on. Rumpled, maddened, hornier than he’d been in twenty years, Jack in his business clothes and Hope out of after-hours jeans. He wanted to fuck her six ways until Sunday, until they were ragged, exhausted, even sore.

But not yet.

Because what if he were wrong? And it was a mistake? What if—

Her tongue slid against his, teasing him to folly, sweet mint, sweeter woman, against her couch, coffee table pushed away. Hope, after months of speculation, warm and real in his arms. Jack’s shirt was a wrinkled mess, his tie loosened and askew, trousers, creased and too tight in the crotch.

Only kissing. A little touching—he couldn’t resist. Careful. What if she went crazy on him? If she flaunted it, turned into the office queen, sleeping with the boss, I can do anything I want to. Discretion was important. But they had to go out, she wasn’t the type you had on the side, kept like a dirty secret. She was the type you took out for dinner...

What if it wasn’t worth it?

What if she wanted to marry?

She quit?

What if he had her and it was over spell broken, dream attained, stuck with her, inert and unwanted as a slice of three day old bread...

If she sued him?

He’d be broke. And ruined.

What if she didn’t take her hand out of his lap? The little minx was tongue-kissing him in a way that made Jack optimistic about her prowess in bed and eventual sexual compatibility. She stroked his erection through his trousers. Wool and cotton lay between them, and his prick stood up, saluting, oh, every day was Secretary’s Day around here...

She was going to make him come in his pants.

Then what?

How the hell was he supposed to have any authority over an employee who’d caused him to helplessly shoot semen into his boxers? Jesus. He meant to pray for strength to hold out a bit longer—no fucking her until you’re absolutely sure. That was the bargain—the angel of his conscience and the devil of his desire had made a pact—but it came out a low groan of pleasure.

He throbbed. Her tongue was a wet enticement to do much more than just kiss.

What if he hurt her?

She’d found his prick and he couldn’t say no, couldn’t draw her hand back. He wanted her to touch him, eager and hungry as he. Her back was smooth and warm, and the delicate ripple of her spine arched to curve into a perfect ass. He clutched with want as fierce as hers. It was going to be all right. She was like him she desired.

He didn’t mean to, but he was twisting the infernal elastic in his fingers, working it as they kissed, and he popped her bra unhooked. She sighed. His hands slid up her belly, ridiculous constraints loosened, cupping the perfect flesh of her breasts. He squeezed again, and she nipped at his lower lip, making him gasp and grin. He was dizzy with teasing, mad with delay. Maybe now they’d go in her bedroom and get it over with.

Slow down.

She was wrong. Too young. Not blonde. She liked country music.

She was his employee.

The tee draped like a whisper over the swell of her breasts, risen nipples. Hope’s eyes closed and he could watch her. She wasn’t like this in the office. Never on a rainy Tuesday could he imagine how pleasing she was, breathless and wet—she had to be wet, he was hard—

They stopped kissing.

Hope looked at him, opened her mouth to say something, changed her mind. Jack waited. She knelt, straddling him, settled, her hair dishevelled as his clothes. She pressed the swell of her vulva, damp cotton, her hollow, against his erection. She shifted, testing his stiffness, and he held her steady, watching her face. Her lips were swollen from kissing.

Hope began to rock against him. He groaned, realising what she was doing.

She didn’t need him to undress. She didn’t need to slide her panties aside. She rocked against his body, and his hands were inside her tee again, finding her nipples, her breath catching as he gently rolled them. She danced against him, hips moving in an insistent, elongated oval, and he knew what she was going to be like, fucking.

But she was alone, knowing he wasn’t going to take her into the bedroom and settle it, not yet.

She moved, head back, lost to desire. Her hands on his shoulders, and though it was his still-restrained cock she used and it was his fingers and palms against her breasts, it was dance solo. He’d made his decision—and so had she. She ground against him, faster, using him. He longed to kiss her, he longed to fuck her, he was happy to be right where he was. Sole audience and pivot.

She bucked her hips, frantic, helpless, and he watched. Gasping, mewing, as the pleasure took. Jack laughed with astonishment. He’d imagined this for months seeing her transformed, in joy.

He thought he’d be brave enough to be with her.

Astride, his hardness unabated, her breasts rising and falling, she was a queen unbowed. She relaxed into a new softness, smaller, ducking her head. She clung to him, curled into his arms, sanctuary and consolation. She hid her face in his tie. Jack’s hand was in her hair, stroking, and he was still grinning, even as he yearned.

This delay was ridiculous. Only kissing.

For now.

______
© 2004 Savannah Stephens Smith. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio:Savannah Stephens Smith can be found online at Erotic Friction.com or offline in front of the monitor, composing more fiction (or procrastinating). From nine-to-five, she works undercover as a secretary, but when the sun sets...


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