I couldn't wait until I got home. No way.
The restroom on the second floor was a tomb of cold tile and flickering fluorescent lights. It was the one place in the building nobody touched—the hot water pipes had been shot for months, and the sinks only hissed out ice-cold streams that discouraged anyone from staying long. It was the perfect, desolate sanctuary for what I needed.
I was seated on the closed toilet lid, my back against the cold ceramic tank. Jasmine was straddling me, her office skirt hiked up to her waist, her hands braced firmly against the metal partitions of the stall. She was jumping on my cock with a frantic, desperate energy, the thud of our bodies meeting echoing off the sterile walls. We hadn't even fully undressed; my pants were pooled around my ankles and her stockings were bunched at her knees. It was a tactical, high-stakes fuck, driven by the constant threat of the heavy restroom door swinging open.
