Work Text:
"You have pretty feet."
It's the first truly personal thing your new boss, Kevin Lomax, [Esq.] , says to you after months of working for Milton & Lomax. Maybe it wasn't entirely professional, wearing open-toed heels to the office, but it had been a looong winter in New York, and the first nice day of spring you couldn't resist.
He couldn't either, apparently.
You should have been suspicious, when he breezed into your cubicle and threw down a thick stack of papers, totally out of order, and said you were going to have to stay late to sort it all out. He was the boss, and it wasn't like your collection of houseplants were going to miss you...
And be real. One searing look from those burning dark eyes mixed with that sugar-sweet southern accent, and you would have done The Little Teapot dance on your desk in front of everyone if he asked you to. That man just has a magnetism. It's almost supernatural , the way he can sway people.
You guess that’s why he makes The Big Bucks.
It's late and the office is practically deserted, by the time you've finished collating the mishmash of the court file. How had that even happened? Almost like someone dropped all the papers on the floor and deliberately mixed them together badly. And maybe, maybe you feel the slightest trill of alarm, as you realize how alone you are on the floor, making your way past all the empty cubicles. But you push it away, down down down with all your other little intuitions about this place, because you don't really have a choice. This city is expensive, and you are not going home.
You knock on his office door, and receive a muffled invitation to come in. "Here you are, sir," you say, resting the tome-like stack upon his behemoth of a walnut desk. He's sitting by the window in his shirt sleeves, black suspenders stark against his white button up, cuffs rolled up over powerful forearms. Though you know he’s a widower, he still wears his wedding ring. You don't know why the sight seems almost intimate to you.
It's late, and you are tired.
"Thank you, y/n." You nod, and make to go. "Want a drink?" The offer makes you freeze in your tracks. It's not something the partners usually extend to a lowly secretary like you. But as he lifts his drink your way, swirls an amber liquid with ice cubes clinking in his cut-crystal glass--he is the very embodiment of temptation. You don't even really like hard spirits, don't know how you'll drink it without making a ridiculous face in front of your boss, but still you find yourself nodding slowly, almost as though you don't have control of yourself.
He smiles at you, knowing, but not unkind.
It must just be the reflection off his wire rimmed glasses, but for a moment, it’s almost as though his dark eyes glow.
He gets you the drink himself, waves for you to sit down across from him. You have to admit you are happy to get off your feet. You take a small sip, and do your level best not to grimace.
“Good?” he asks, and you can tell he is laughing behind his own glass.
“I don’t know,” you decide to answer, setting your tumbler down with a sigh. You take a moment to look out the window, the lights of Manhattan like your own galaxy twinkling below. “Quite a view you have up here.” You don’t get to see the lights like this, on your ground floor in Brooklyn.
“It’s breathtaking,” he agrees, and your heart does a little dance in your chest, when out the corner of your eye you realize he is looking at you.
You shouldn’t be here, that little voice in the back of your head whispers. You know it’s right, but you just can’t convince yourself to get up and go.
You are used to men staring at you in this city. Men will be men. But usually they’re looking at your breasts, or sometimes your mouth. Your legs, even, what they can make out protruding from your knee-length business skirts on the subway.
This is the first time you have ever noticed a man blatantly, lustfully, staring at your feet.
“Those hurt?” he asks, pointing at your heels with his chin. You cannot help but think he resembles a king in his court, sprawled in the comfortable leather chair across from you. It’s the most at ease you’ve ever seen him.
You laugh a little nervously, not entirely sure what you’re getting into here. “Only since about 4:30,” you admit, which would have been the point you would have changed into your Nikes for the slog home, on a normal day.
“Poor thing,” he laments in that cloyingly sweet drawl. God. Before you started working here, you thought men who sounded like that toted shotguns in denim overalls and hunted gators. How your perceptions have changed. “Give ‘em here.” Those long fingers make a ‘come hither’ gesture from his knee–and you think you might expire.
“Sir?”
He smirks at you, a sparkle in his dark eyes that utterly steals your breath away. “Or not. Never met a woman who didn’t like a foot rub after a long day, but maybe you’re the first.”
Lomax makes you feel silly, when he says it like that. Like you’re the odd duck, balking at your boss touching your feet. Or–embarassed by how very much you would like for him to. You start to reach for the buckle at your ankle, but he leans closer, eager. “Allow me.”
That is how your foot ended up in his beautiful, strong hands. How he almost ceremoniously propped your shoe on his lap, on trousers that probably cost a month’s pay for you, so deftly undoing the little buckle by your ankle with clever fingers and sliding your foot free.
It does feel heavenly, if you’re being honest, and the corner of his mouth ticks just a notch as a sound escapes you when he squeezes the ball of your foot. “Like that, sweetheart?”
“Too much, maybe,” you admit with a shaky little laugh.
What in the ever loving FUCK do you think you are you doing?!
He traces the curve of your ankle bone with the blade of his thumb, and your eyes slide closed as though he touched you somewhere very different, your painted toes curling in his lap. This is magic, if you’re being honest, and you’re not sure you realized how much you miss being touched until this very damning moment, alone after hours with your very hot boss.
“No such thing,” he insists with that little smile that you’re sure has enticed multitudes of people to sign their lives away on the dotted line. “You’ve been working hard. You deserve a treat.”
That’s when your eyes flick down. You just can’t help it. And you see the bulge at his crotch, his burgeoning erection straining against the fabric of his pants. A spear of lust splits you down the middle, like a lightning strike to your loins–and you know this is very, very, wrong.
Oh. God.
“Sir–”
As though he senses your sudden need to bolt up and flee he leans towards you–without thinking, you plant your foot right on his chest, preventing him. A beat later you are horrified by your action, but you get zero time to dwell on it. With a wicked smile that melts your panties he takes your foot in his big hand–and brings it to his mouth.
Your toe disappears between his luscious, kissable lips, his tongue tickling the bottom of your foot, and you discover you really might die of wanting. The strangled sound you make as his tongue explores between your toes is pure desire, and you know you are a ridiculous thing but your throbbing clit demands more and don’t stop.
His lips trail up your instep, the line of your calf–is it just the light, or do his teeth suddenly seem sharp, somehow? You blink and he is on his knees before you, pushing up your skirt so his trim torso can wedge between your legs, his big hands on your thighs beneath the fabric. It takes you a moment to realize that little scream came from you.
He looks you in the eye, as though he can see to the very depths of your soul, his pink mouth pulled in a smirk. He’s laughing at you, sure, but he still doesn’t seem cruel about it. That counts for something, somehow.
“You want me to stop, Miss Y/n?”
Your hands are on his broad shoulders, your nails digging into the webbed fabric of his suspenders, your breath a quick and elusive thing in your chest like the fluttering of birds. He is the very embodiment of temptation, and though you know you should say yes, you simply can’t. You shake your head no, and that smile widens slightly.
“I’d like to hear you say it aloud. An oral agreement, as it were.”
He surely feels it, as you squirm beneath him just at hearing the word.
“No, Sir.”
You can tell that you please him, and that should not make you feel so accomplished, so right, so liberated.
“That’s my good girl.”
Hearing that should not fill you with a searing heat that settles between your legs, warm and wet and so wanting.
And that is how your boss debauched you, how he kissed you silly and ate you out in that fine leather chair, before carrying you to the desk for proper fucking. That is how he ended up inside you, you still only wearing one shoe, your legs wrapped around his waist as he railed you on top of all his important papers. You flail for something to hold on to, knocking the file you so painstakingly stayed late to organize, the pages scattering across the floor.
“Oh no,” he pouts through a devilish grin, filling you with his thick cock until his tip kisses your cervix. “Looks like you have to stay even later now.”
“ Fuck,” you moan, but it has nothing to do with your impending workload, and everything to do with the way he’s rearranging your insides, stuffing you full with that beautiful dick while his thumb flicks your clit. “You are. A devil ,” you pant, so close to climax, the pleasure building and clawing in your pent-up loins. You would do anything , anything, for just a little more, right there.
“ No, just his son ,” he answers through another sharp toothed grin.
“ What? ” You’re not sure you heard him, over the sound of your desperate moans, your heartbeat deafening in your ears.
“Nothing, baby girl. You cumming with me?”
“ Yes sir. ”
He laughs, a wonderful, almost boyish sound, before his teeth sink into your shoulder and his hips lock against yours, spilling himself inside you as your needy little cunt flutters around his dick, milking him with the tremors of your pleasure. Utterly spent, wrung out, and more than a little ashamed, you collapse back on the desk. Still inside you, he brings your foot to his mouth again, kissing it lovingly with that wicked glint in his eye.
“Wear those little peep-toes anytime, beautiful,” he teases you, his accent thick and sweet as molasses. Yet somehow–you sense he’s serious.
Jesus fucking christ.
You’re going to have to go shoe shopping.