Fever on the Desk

I was still finding my footing at the marketing firm, a sleek downtown outfit where I’d landed a junior role just a few months ago. At twenty-four, I was the youngest on the team, but my age didn’t keep me from meshing with the others – most of the time.

My days often stretched late, hunched over spreadsheets and campaign drafts when the office turned into a ghost town. Only a handful of us stayed behind, racing deadlines. Around nine, the cleaning crew arrived – two sisters, both in their twenties. When they hit our floor, my colleagues barely glanced up, their indifference bordering on dismissive. It rubbed me the wrong way, even if they kept things civil. I made it a habit to lend a hand, sliding my chair back to clear space for the vacuum or stacking stray memos off my desk.

The younger sister, Mia, was close to my age and usually tackled our open-plan office while her sister, Lena, cleaned the quieter executive suites. I got the sense Mia preferred our area because the empty hallways spooked her a bit.

Come December, the firm threw its annual holiday bash in the top-floor event space, all glass walls and city views. The whole crew showed up – partners, managers, grunts like me, and, as a courtesy, the cleaning sisters. The room buzzed with clinking glasses and forced small talk, the hierarchy painfully clear in every handshake and seat choice.

By chance, I ended up across from Mia at dinner. We clicked instantly, trading quips and eye-rolls about the stuffy execs, like we were in our own bubble. The party felt like a corporate flowchart – everyone slotted by rank. As the newest hire, I was down at the bottom with Mia and Lena, but I didn’t care. Mia’s laugh made it worth it.

Post-dinner, drinks flowed, and I noticed Mia properly for the first time. She’d traded her usual gray uniform for a crimson dress that hugged her frame, dipping low at the back and grazing her knees with a slit that teased higher. Her dark hair was swept into a loose bun, a few strands framing her sharp, kind eyes. She looked nothing like the woman I saw pushing a mop every night.

As the C-suite folks bailed, the vibe loosened. The remaining crowd – us lower-rung types – got rowdy, tossing barbs about the bosses’ tacky speeches. Mia and I were tipsy, our banter turning flirty. Soon, we were swaying to the music, her hand brushing my arm, both of us laughing too hard at nothing.

A few cocktails deep, we needed air. We slipped out to the rooftop terrace, the city’s skyline glittering below. The December chill hit us, and between the booze and the quiet, we gravitated closer. Without a word, our lips met – soft at first, then hungry. Her fingers grazed my belt, tracing me through the fabric, her touch bold and teasing. – You’re trouble, aren’t you? – I murmured against her ear. She smirked, – Only if you keep up. – Her teeth tugged my earlobe, and I knew Mia was no wallflower – she was fire, and I was all in.

My hands found her hips, sliding over the dress to her ass, tight and sculpted, proof she hit the gym hard (a weakness of mine). I felt the thin strap of her panties beneath the fabric and pulled her flush against me, our bodies sparking with friction. She gasped, – God, that’s good, – her hands abandoning my belt to grip my shoulders, urging us closer.

After some heated whispers and neck kisses, we ducked back inside, sneaking to my cubicle. I shoved aside folders and a keyboard, lifting her onto the desk’s edge. Her dress rode up, revealing smooth thighs. I hooked my fingers in her lace panties, sliding them down as she fumbled with my zipper, her touch eager and precise.

– Hurry, she breathed, and I didn’t need telling twice. That desk became a memory seared into my brain, but the cramped space and risk of getting caught killed the mood. – My place, she whispered, no interruptions.

We left separately, dodging curious glances, and regrouped at her cozy apartment a few blocks away. The door barely shut before we were tearing at each other’s clothes, jackets and shoes scattered across the floor. We crashed onto her plush sectional, playful and primal, like we were chasing each other. She straddled me, her bare skin warm, and guided me inside, slow and deliberate, her breath hitching. – Fuck, you feel amazing, she moaned, her hips rolling in a rhythm that had me seeing stars. Her moans were low, almost musical, each one pushing me closer to the edge.

When her pace faltered, she arched back, bracing her hands on my knees. I steadied her waist, guiding her as she leaned further, her body catching the glow of a streetlamp through the blinds-shadows carving out her curves, her breasts full and swaying. She was a goddamn vision. I whispered, – You’re unreal, keep going, – my words spurring her on. She’d pause, breathless, then dive back in, her energy fading but her desire relentless.

Office gossip had me curious about her figure – some snarked her curves were too perfect, probably enhanced. I wasn’t about to let that slide without finding out. Cradling her with one arm, I trailed my other hand down her throat, slow, like I was mapping every inch. Her skin prickled under my touch, her breath catching. – Keep doing that, – she begged. My fingers circled her breasts, grazing closer to her nipples with each pass, tightening the spiral until she was trembling. Her nails dug into my thighs, a silent plea for more.