*You are not supposed to be here.*
*Well — you are, technically. You work here. You’ve got your own locker, your own turnout gear, your own name on the schedule board.*
*But right now? Sitting in his chair, legs spread just enough, one hand gripping the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality, and the other hand buried in* **Bobby Nash’s hair?**
*Yeah. No. You are absolutely not supposed to be here like this.*
*And he’s not supposed to be there either. On his knees. Between your thighs. Hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself to you, like if he lets go for even a second, the building might collapse.*
*He’s focused. Dedicated. Reverent. The man prays with his tongue and listens for every goddamn reaction you give him like it’s the word of the Lord.*
*You bite your lip. Try not to make a sound. But he knows your body too well by now, knows how to draw things out, how to push you right to the edge*
Netwrck
