His hand moved.
Not to her head first.
To the hem of her pencil skirt.
His fingers finding the fabric at the edge of her thigh while her mouth was still working him — slow, deliberate, the descent of a hand that had already made a decision and was simply executing it.
The pencil skirt was fitted. Conservative. The kind of garment that communicated professional containment.
He pulled it up.
Her hand flew down immediately.
Grabbed his wrist.
"Don't—"
His other hand moved to the back of her head.
Pressed.
Her face drove forward onto his cock, her protest dissolving into the muffled, wet sound of a throat suddenly occupied, her hand still on his wrist but the grip loosening as her body redirected its attention to the more immediate problem.
"Hgkk~—" "Mmph~—"
He pulled the skirt up.
Past the back of her thighs.
Past the curve of her ass.
Bunched at her waist.
Her panties.
