Work Text:
She tastes like the scotch he's watched her pour down the drain barely fifteen minutes ago - a nearly full bottle, probably, no, definitely expensive, and at some point, most likely, she'll make him pay for that in some way. Possibly as early as within the next thirty minutes.
"We can't - " he says, and mentally, he can see Scott rolling his eyes at him.
"We are," she says, and the hands that push him down are sure, strong, unshaking. Somewhere to the left of his head there's a stack of reports, at least four drafts of a five-minute speech.
"Jo." She's not Kirsty. She'll never be Kirsty. He hasn't spent days, weeks, months, pining after her, although he supposes he's always loved her, in a rather platonic sort of way.
As one should, when one is working for someone like Jo. Look, but don't ever think about touching.
"Daniel." She smiles down at him; a real, genuine smile that makes the skin around her eyes wrinkle. Her hair has come loose, and looking up at her, he thinks that she is breathtakingly beautiful.
Iain's an idiot. "Please. At least call me Danny. You always do, around the office."
"I'll call you - " her shirt goes flying and he winces, preparing for the sound of something falling over, some extra bit of mess that will need to be cleaned up, after " - whatever I bloody well want. Is that clear?"
He's never gone in for the whole dominatrix thing, really. He's a bit of a traditionalist that way, he supposes; his fantasies has always revolved around taking care of the object of his affection: protecting Kirsty from her stalker (somehow), cooking dinner for that nameless girl he met at a conference. Curling up on the couch while watching a good documentary.
"Yes, ma'am," he says. "Very clear." He doesn't think he's ever been this turned on in his life.
"Good," she says, and starts on removing his pants.