My first contribution to Fangrai February. Of course it's smut.

Lightning shifts in your lap, knees digging into the back of the chair and red dress riding up on her thighs. Her fingers are pulling at the buttons of your blouse while yours dig in against the bone of her hips. The smile on her face still looks like victory. The clock on the wall reads seven thirty-six.

Twenty-seven years is a long time, but in those twenty-seven years, you've never had a day worse than today.

"We have reservations," Lightning tells you, but the way she pulls open the top of your shirt and then goes for your neck with her lips and teeth makes you wonder about how much she really cares about dinner at the fancy restaurant down the street.

"Fuck 'em," you grunt, sliding your hands down to her thighs, thumbs pressing along the inside and fingers scratching up just beneath the cut of her dress.

Anniversaries are supposed to be something special. You suppose this counts.

Lightning just laughs hotly against your neck. The sound goes straight to your gut, right down between your legs and makes your eyes flutter and your breath come just a little shallower. Or maybe that's her mouth, leaving marks and lipstick alike below your ear.

"I could lock up," you say, nails biting into her skin when she edges her teeth over your neck. The office is supposed to be empty, but you wouldn't want anyone dropping in on something they weren't supposed to see. Nothing about this complies with office protocol.

She pulls herself away from your neck long enough to give you a smile that just picks at the edges of her lips. Her lipstick has smeared a little. You want to kiss her.

"Later," she says and grinds down against you.

Fuck it then. She's been baiting you into this for long enough as it is.

Of all the days for your car not to start, today was the day. Took you thirty minutes to finally give up on it, twenty to find someone who could get you to work, and an hour and a half for them to come and get you. You were supposed to be home at five thirty, changed and ready to go at six; your harpy of a boss told you to take off when you'd worked a whole day.

Not that you're much minding that now, with the two of you squeezed together in your computer chair, your desk only inches from Lightning's back.

And you certainly aren't minding the little red dress she's squeezed into either for all the skin it shows. You only wish you'd been ready for your date when she showed up to get you, black slacks and work blouse all you've got to work with.

She doesn't mind, though. Not with your finger creeping up her thighs, seeking the black lace she's got waiting for you. One hand slides right on up onto her hip, dragging the short dress with it, but the other stops short at her underwear, two fingers against the fabric there.

"Ahh," she lets out a long, soft breath, closing her eyes and finding your shoulders with her hands. Her hips come down to meet your fingers, and you can feel the heat through her underwear. It's enough to make your breath catch just for a moment. Then you lean forward to kiss her.

Her fingers slide into your hair, pulling out the tie and lacing in the curls. She tastes like lipstick and mints and just a little desperation when you slide your tongue into her mouth.

And why shouldn't she? She's been egging you on all day, texting you if she didn't know better she'd think you were trying to get her to fend for herself tonight. You'd told her not to worry, you'd handle her, and she'd been forward enough to ask what you had planned. That particular conversation hadn't been entirely work appropriate either.

You hadn't told her you were going to fuck her here, but that dress and the way she swung her hips and smiled just so was too much when you were already so hot and bothered. Good thing she don't seem to mind, starting to dig her nails into your shoulder.

You're going to ruin that underwear. You don't care.

She lets up when you pull your fingers back for just a second, gives a soft breath against your lips, and then jolts when you dip beneath the lace to slide a finger inside her. Then it's all you can do to keep up with her, rocking down to meet each of your thrusts.

Her legs start to shake, and she can't match your lips whenever you curl your fingers just so. It take every bit of her to keep moving her hips like she is.

When you add a finger and crook them in her immediately, she shudders and breaks away from your lips. But she doesn't go far. You open your eyes, and she's right there, breathing hard and biting her lip and letting out little oh's and hisses for all the good you're doing her.

You feel the heat burn between your own legs again at the sight of her, and your fingers work faster for it.

It's when her voice goes higher, her fingers scratch at you, her shoulders and back go tight and jerky that you know she's close, and when she arches forward, shaking and shuddering and gasping so perfectly, you bury your face into her shoulder and smell the strawberries of her shampoo and the sweat of her skin and have to bite your lip for all she's doing to you.

Then all there is is her hard breaths and her fingers still in your hair and the low, soft whisper of: "Lock up."

You haven't once looked forward to overtime like you are now, and there's relief and want clear on your face for all you can't wait for her to get her legs back.