You want to know what gets me there? What gets me there is intensity. Eye contact. A wink with the power to instantly make me wet. Kisses that are like fucking: long and slow and deep. 

And: the thought of leaning over your desk, toward you as you sit behind it. Close enough that you could see down the front of my shirt to the lace lining the top of my bra. Close enough that you could reach out to touch, if you wanted, to see if you could feel my nipples through the sheer fabric. And the thought of raking my teeth down your earlobe and whispering into your ear all of the real reasons why I come into your office. 

You think it is because of you, because of what you want, that I come in here and parade myself around? That when I sit on the couch in front of your desk and cross and uncross my legs that it is for you? That you can see my cleavage, the curve of my breasts, because I know how much you long to squeeze them, to catch my nipple in your mouth? 

Oh, no. It is not for you. It is because I can capture your gaze, your attention. Because I slide the hem of my skirt up my thigh and watch you lose your train of thought. Because when you hear my heels clicking on the floor past your office, you can't help but hope that I'll come to see you. Because when I offer to fix your crooked tie you let me brush my fingertips against your skin when I tighten it against your neck. 

I long to come into your office and just shut the door. Shut it quietly and quickly enough that you can't manage to get up from your chair in time. That you don't even see it coming. 

This time, I'd take your tie off of you, not tighten it. I'd drape it over one of your shoulders, to use later. And I'd turn around to let you unzip my dress and unclasp my bra. But before I let the fabric slide off my shoulders, I'd stand you up and use your tie to bind your wrists in front of you. 

I would lead you over to your couch, sit you down, and straddle your lap. You'd be able to see my dress come up, and the lace band at the tops of my thigh highs gripping my flesh, as my thighs squeezed you. I'd feel your poor cock - so hard and untouched - pressing into me. 

And then, I'd drop my dress from my shoulders and slip the straps of my bra down my arms. You'd see my breasts, finally freed in front of you. Just barely out of reach. And you wouldn't be able to touch.