19th Hole
You're still wearing that skirt," he murmured against her neck, fingers already working the zipper before the service door clicked shut behind them. She'd pretended not to notice him staring all afternoon—how the navy pleats rode up her thighs whenever she reached for golf gloves on the top shelf—but the damp heat between her legs betrayed her. The stockroom smelled of leather and Windex, the shelves trembling as he backed her into a tower of Titleist boxes.
His Rolex dug into her hip when he lifted her onto the counter, knocking over a display of tees that scattered like pickup sticks. She tasted gin and spearmint when their mouths crashed together, his polo shirt still crisp from this morning's board meeting while her regulation blouse gaped where buttons popped. "Eighteen fucking holes," he growled, dragging the skirt's hem upward, "watching you bend over every goddamn ball washer."
She laughed then—bright and unexpected—spreading her thighs before his fingers even reached her soaked lace. The sound startled them both, this burst of genuine amusement in the middle of their frantic touching. "You counted?" Her teeth caught his earlobe as she arched against him, her fingers already working his belt buckle with practiced efficiency. "Guess you really did keep score."
His laugh was rougher, muffled against her throat as he dragged her panties aside. The nylon tore a little—she'd have to remember to toss them in the dumpster later—but the sting only made her wetter. He didn't ask permission; she didn't expect him to. The power dynamic was the whole point, polished loafers planted wide between her scuffed Mary Janes while the pro shop's neon "Open" sign buzzed overhead.
When his mouth finally hit her clit, it wasn't gentle. She gasped, thighs jerking as his tongue worked in brutal, practiced strokes—like he was dissecting her pleasure the way he'd analyzed golf swings all afternoon. The counter dug into her tailbone, but she barely registered it, too busy watching his salt-and-pepper head bob between her legs. "Jesus," she hissed, fingers scrambling at his scalp, "you've—ah—done this in locker rooms before."
He paused just long enough to smirk up at her, the dimple in his left cheek absurdly boyish for a man who'd signed her paychecks. "Tenth hole. Sand trap." His breath scorched her inner thigh. "Wasn't nearly this loud." The confession sent heat flooding her cheeks even as her hips rolled greedily against his mouth.
She'd heard the whispers in the break room—how the CFO's divorce settlement included "stress relief privileges" with the staff—but knowing he'd chosen her over the blonde in accounting who wore pencil skirts made her clench around nothing. His groan vibrated through her when she tugged his hair, the sting clearly intentional this time.
"You forgot something," she panted, kicking a half-crushed box of Pro V1s aside with her heel. The foil packet glinted where it landed near his knee, ignored. He exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging his cock through her slickness instead of reaching for it.
She watched his pupils blow wider when she hooked a leg over his shoulder—not guiding, just displaying. The stretch burned deliciously as he sank into her bare, her inner muscles fluttering in greedy pulses she couldn't control. His groan sounded punched-out when she clenched deliberately, her nails scoring twin crescents into his forearms.
"Fuck," he choked, hips stuttering before he caught himself. His thumb swiped roughly over her clit as he bottomed out, the sudden fullness making her vision whiten at the edges. She'd expected him to slam into her—wanted it, even—but the slow drag of skin on skin was somehow filthier, the wet sounds obscene against the hum of the industrial fridge.
Her orgasm hit like a nine-iron to the solar plexus, thighs clamping around his waist as pleasure ripped through her in shuddering waves. The counter's edge bit into her palms where she gripped it, her moan muffled against his shoulder when she bit down. He didn't flinch—just groaned "again" against her temple and crooked two fingers inside her, the stretch bordering on painful as he worked her through the aftershocks.
His control unraveled when she came a second time, his thrusts turning jagged as she milked him with rhythmic pulses. The Rolex scraped her inner thigh when he pinned her hips down, his release spilling hot between them with a choked curse. She watched his face—the way his jaw went slack, the momentary vulnerability before his CEO mask snapped back into place—and filed it away like stolen merchandise.
The silence afterwards was thick with the musk of sex and leather conditioner. He pulled away first, adjusting his slacks with crisp efficiency while she stayed sprawled on the counter, thighs sticky with him. A monogrammed handkerchief appeared in her periphery—linen, not cotton—before he murmured, "Come to the house tonight. Pool cabana." Like he was scheduling a tee time.
She pressed her thighs together, feeling the wet warmth seep into her ruined stockings. The towel smelled like his cologne when she wiped herself, an absurd intimacy compared to how he'd already been inside her. "Your wife's in Aspen," she said, not a question. The calendar in the pro shop listed executive vacations in red ink.
His fingers lingered on her knee, tracing the laddered run in her tights. "She took the kids skiing." His thumb pressed into the hollow behind her kneecap, proprietary. "Cabana's heated." The implication hung between them—how easily she'd fit into the empty space of his family portrait.
She pressed the towel between her thighs, feeling his come smear warm against her skin. The linen was monogrammed—his initials in navy thread—and she wondered how many other girls had blotted themselves with his wife's wedding gift. His gaze dropped to where her fingers worked, pupils dilating when she rubbed a lazy circle over her clit through the fabric.
"Eighteen holes," he repeated, smoothing his tie with the hand that hadn't been inside her, "and you're still not par." The double entendre curled his mouth in a way that made her stomach flip. She knew this game—had played it since the first time he'd "accidentally" grazed her ass while reaching for a putter—but the stakes were suddenly visceral. His thumb traced the inside of her knee, lingering where the vein pulsed blue beneath her skin.
His fingers lingered on her knee, tracing the laddered run in her tights. "She took the kids skiing." His thumb pressed into the hollow behind her kneecap, proprietary. "Cabana's heated." The implication hung between them—how easily she'd fit into the empty space of his family portrait.
She pressed the towel between her thighs, feeling his come smear warm against her skin. The linen was monogrammed—his initials in navy thread—and she wondered how many other girls had blotted themselves with his wife's wedding gift. His gaze dropped to where her fingers worked, pupils dilating when she rubbed a lazy circle over her clit through the fabric.
"Eighteen holes," he repeated, smoothing his tie with the hand that hadn't been inside her, "and you're still not par." The double entendre curled his mouth in a way that made her stomach flip. She knew this game—had played it since the first time he'd "accidentally" grazed her ass while reaching for a putter—but the stakes were suddenly visceral. His thumb traced the inside of her knee, lingering where the vein pulsed blue beneath her skin.
His Rolex dug into her hip when he lifted her onto the counter, knocking over a display of tees that scattered like pickup sticks. She tasted gin and spearmint when their mouths crashed together, his polo shirt still crisp from this morning's board meeting while her regulation blouse gaped where buttons popped. "Eighteen fucking holes," he growled, dragging the skirt's hem upward, "watching you bend over every goddamn ball washer."
She laughed then—bright and unexpected—spreading her thighs before his fingers even reached her soaked lace. The sound startled them both, this burst of genuine amusement in the middle of their frantic touching. "You counted?" Her teeth caught his earlobe as she arched against him, her fingers already working his belt buckle with practiced efficiency. "Guess you really did keep score."
His laugh was rougher, muffled against her throat as he dragged her panties aside. The nylon tore a little—she'd have to remember to toss them in the dumpster later—but the sting only made her wetter. He didn't ask permission; she didn't expect him to. The power dynamic was the whole point, polished loafers planted wide between her scuffed Mary Janes while the pro shop's neon "Open" sign buzzed overhead.
When his mouth finally hit her clit, it wasn't gentle. She gasped, thighs jerking as his tongue worked in brutal, practiced strokes—like he was dissecting her pleasure the way he'd analyzed golf swings all afternoon. The counter dug into her tailbone, but she barely registered it, too busy watching his salt-and-pepper head bob between her legs. "Jesus," she hissed, fingers scrambling at his scalp, "you've—ah—done this in locker rooms before."
He paused just long enough to smirk up at her, the dimple in his left cheek absurdly boyish for a man who'd signed her paychecks. "Tenth hole. Sand trap." His breath scorched her inner thigh. "Wasn't nearly this loud." The confession sent heat flooding her cheeks even as her hips rolled greedily against his mouth.
She'd heard the whispers in the break room—how the CFO's divorce settlement included "stress relief privileges" with the staff—but knowing he'd chosen her over the blonde in accounting who wore pencil skirts made her clench around nothing. His groan vibrated through her when she tugged his hair, the sting clearly intentional this time.
"You forgot something," she panted, kicking a half-crushed box of Pro V1s aside with her heel. The foil packet glinted where it landed near his knee, ignored. He exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging his cock through her slickness instead of reaching for it.
She watched his pupils blow wider when she hooked a leg over his shoulder—not guiding, just displaying. The stretch burned deliciously as he sank into her bare, her inner muscles fluttering in greedy pulses she couldn't control. His groan sounded punched-out when she clenched deliberately, her nails scoring twin crescents into his forearms.
"Fuck," he choked, hips stuttering before he caught himself. His thumb swiped roughly over her clit as he bottomed out, the sudden fullness making her vision whiten at the edges. She'd expected him to slam into her—wanted it, even—but the slow drag of skin on skin was somehow filthier, the wet sounds obscene against the hum of the industrial fridge.
Her orgasm hit like a nine-iron to the solar plexus, thighs clamping around his waist as pleasure ripped through her in shuddering waves. The counter's edge bit into her palms where she gripped it, her moan muffled against his shoulder when she bit down. He didn't flinch—just groaned "again" against her temple and crooked two fingers inside her, the stretch bordering on painful as he worked her through the aftershocks.
His control unraveled when she came a second time, his thrusts turning jagged as she milked him with rhythmic pulses. The Rolex scraped her inner thigh when he pinned her hips down, his release spilling hot between them with a choked curse. She watched his face—the way his jaw went slack, the momentary vulnerability before his CEO mask snapped back into place—and filed it away like stolen merchandise.
The silence afterwards was thick with the musk of sex and leather conditioner. He pulled away first, adjusting his slacks with crisp efficiency while she stayed sprawled on the counter, thighs sticky with him. A monogrammed handkerchief appeared in her periphery—linen, not cotton—before he murmured, "Come to the house tonight. Pool cabana." Like he was scheduling a tee time.
She pressed her thighs together, feeling the wet warmth seep into her ruined stockings. The towel smelled like his cologne when she wiped herself, an absurd intimacy compared to how he'd already been inside her. "Your wife's in Aspen," she said, not a question. The calendar in the pro shop listed executive vacations in red ink.
His fingers lingered on her knee, tracing the laddered run in her tights. "She took the kids skiing." His thumb pressed into the hollow behind her kneecap, proprietary. "Cabana's heated." The implication hung between them—how easily she'd fit into the empty space of his family portrait.
She pressed the towel between her thighs, feeling his come smear warm against her skin. The linen was monogrammed—his initials in navy thread—and she wondered how many other girls had blotted themselves with his wife's wedding gift. His gaze dropped to where her fingers worked, pupils dilating when she rubbed a lazy circle over her clit through the fabric.
"Eighteen holes," he repeated, smoothing his tie with the hand that hadn't been inside her, "and you're still not par." The double entendre curled his mouth in a way that made her stomach flip. She knew this game—had played it since the first time he'd "accidentally" grazed her ass while reaching for a putter—but the stakes were suddenly visceral. His thumb traced the inside of her knee, lingering where the vein pulsed blue beneath her skin.
His fingers lingered on her knee, tracing the laddered run in her tights. "She took the kids skiing." His thumb pressed into the hollow behind her kneecap, proprietary. "Cabana's heated." The implication hung between them—how easily she'd fit into the empty space of his family portrait.
She pressed the towel between her thighs, feeling his come smear warm against her skin. The linen was monogrammed—his initials in navy thread—and she wondered how many other girls had blotted themselves with his wife's wedding gift. His gaze dropped to where her fingers worked, pupils dilating when she rubbed a lazy circle over her clit through the fabric.
"Eighteen holes," he repeated, smoothing his tie with the hand that hadn't been inside her, "and you're still not par." The double entendre curled his mouth in a way that made her stomach flip. She knew this game—had played it since the first time he'd "accidentally" grazed her ass while reaching for a putter—but the stakes were suddenly visceral. His thumb traced the inside of her knee, lingering where the vein pulsed blue beneath her skin.
1 month ago