Sports Editor

A mild flash of irritation constricts my chest when I see the email notification with her name on it pop up on my screen. Or is it nervousness?

It's way too early for this shit.

It's always something with her. How a millennial (an older millennial, but still) can lack computer literacy is beyond me. I click open the email and scan the message. She is in top form this morning, which is to say she's characteristically blunt. Annoyed, I grab my phone and keys and shove them into the back pockets of my jeans as I leave my office. Another little flash of apprehension grips me when I hear my office door click closed behind me.

I really don't feel like playing nice today.

It's still very early and the building is absolutely quiet and still. This is usually the most productive part of my day precisely because no one is around to interrupt me with their SOS emails. I reach the stairs that will take me up to her first floor office and start to climb. My heart is beating a little bit faster by the time I come up on the open door to her office. I breathe deep and quiet the tension that's started to wrap itself around my chest again before popping my head through the doorway and knocking a knuckle lightly against the door to let her know I'm there.

"Good morning," I say when she looks up.

"Hey,"

She's sitting at her desk looking up from behind a laptop and two impractically large monitors. All I can see is the top of her blonde head and a pair of light hazel eyes behind chic tortoiseshell glasses.

"How's it going?" I ask, simultaneously trying to sound casual and knowing it sounds forced. I silently curse myself.

"Good," the clipped response comes quickly. "But I get a network error everytime I try to access my media server," she says, standing up and stepping out from behind her desk.

"Where is it?" I'm a bit confused. The "media server" she means is actually a Mac Mini computer with a two terabyte solid state drive that I put on the network for her to use as a place to keep the photos and videos she works with. My eyes flick to the spot where I'd left it on her desk, currently occupied by sticky notes of various sizes and a take away coffee cup, and flick back to her questioningly.

"The storage room," she indicates towards the back of the massive open plan office she shares with the journalists and photographers that work under her. "My desk was getting cluttered." She starts walking in that direction, expecting me to follow.

We walk past rows of desks arranged in groups of four and interspersed with coffee tables surrounded by armchairs and low sofas. Every coffee table is stacked with back issues of the publication we work for. Despite myself, my eyes start to linger on her longer than casual observation calls for.

Stop it.

I'm so curious about her though, I don't stop looking. She's tall but I can't quite tell if she's taller than I am, we are very similar in height. She's got an athletic build and I would guess that she was an athlete in school. As it turns out, we belong to the same gym where I've seen her running on the treadmill and where she always seems to find me while I'm stretching, twisted into some unflattering and ridiculous looking pose. Although, I'll admit to once strategically claiming a squat rack that was in her line of sight from her chosen treadmill. In my shorts and cut-off tank top I knocked out rep after rep, curious to see what, if anything, this would get out of her. I have no Idea if she watched me, but I hoped she had. That was ages ago though, and she'd never said or done anything to indicate that she'd noticed a bit. Regardless, it didn't really matter, it would be entirely inappropriate and unprofessional if anything were to actually happen between us.

Still... I wonder what her hands would feel like on me.

Apart from both being tall and athletic, we are nothing alike. Her light eyes and straight blonde hair are at odds with my dark eyes and long brunette waves. She always looks casually posh in designer jeans and expensive looking shoes whilst I am usually wearing converse, jeans made for the masses, and a short sleeve shirt that exposes the tattoos down both of my arms.

I wonder if she has any tattoos hidden anywhere.

That intrusive and inappropriate thought thankfully dissipates when we reach a door at the back of the room. The door is propped open revealing another open door at the end of a narrow, short hallway. Moving through the open doors we enter what was once the sports photographers' darkroom. It's still referred to as "the dark room" even though lights were installed and it was converted into a print room years ago. There are printers of varying purpose and quality everywhere, except for the island in the middle of the room that used to house basins filled with chemical baths for developing photos, which is now covered in discarded prints and scraps of paper. We pass it all by in silence and stop in front of the storage room door.

She pulls the door open, steps in, and I follow. This room is much smaller than the darkroom. No bigger than a closet really. It used to be the film transfer room. It's just enough space to sit at the bench that's built into the back wall, but not so big that one might get turned around in the complete darkness. There are camera bags hanging from every wall and bins of extra camera batteries and chargers on the bench along with printer ink and reams of paper. Finally I see where she's put the damn computer, hidden under stacked boxes of toner.

"I plugged it in to an ethernet port back there, so it's not a wifi issue," she says, glancing over her shoulder at me before pointing to the port in question. I lean around her to get a better look, very careful not to get too close to her as I do so.

"Well, it's on," I joke as the tiny white processing light blinks up at us.

"Is that your professional opinion?" her face is impassive. I can't tell if she's amused or annoyed.

Fuck.

"I just need to make an adjustment to that port, it's not a problem," I turn back towards the door, relieved in the knowledge that it's an easy fix that I can do from the comfort of my own office. However, purely on impulse, I find myself pulling the door shut, closing us in the small room.

This is a terrible idea.

I don't care. She's so infuriatingly unapproachable, I need to know what will get a rise out of her. I turn around to look at her. Her eyebrows are slightly furrowed, giving me a questioning look but she doesn't say anything. I look back at her and press my back against the door, inviting her to make the next move.

A moment passes in still silence as we look at each other. I start to think this is when she'll push me out of the way and wrench the door open in righteous indignation. She never does though, and I can see her chest start to rise and fall as her breathing quickens. I reach out and put my hand lightly on her hip. Her breath catches but she doesn't move. I put gentle pressure on her hip, asking her to come closer. She moves, allowing the space between us to disappear. She's so close now, I can hear her uneven breathing. When I take hold of her other hip she lets out a shaky breath of anticipation. That brief sound of her longing sends fire racing under my skin and all I want is to know what she tastes like and what she sounds like when she cums.

Our lips brush softly at first when we kiss. Her lips feel warm and soft on mine and it makes me want more. We look at each other before she slips a hand over my shoulder, around the back of my neck and kisses me hard. I pull her hips closer and let her body press mine into the door. The press of her body against mine is intoxicating. I want her all over me.

I slide a hand up from her hip and under her shirt. I hear a slight gasp when my fingers touch her bare skin. In an instant, shirts are pulled off and bras are unhooked; everything is thrown onto the floor. I lean back to take in the sight of her to fully appreciate how sexy she looks.

Amazing boobs.

They're not big, but they're bigger than mine, and they're beautifully full and round. Watching her face, I put my thumb in my mouth before I trace it around her hard nipple. Her eyes close and she breathes a sigh before her hand closes over mine, forcing a harder touch.

As we kiss she undoes the button on her jeans and then undoes mine. She guides my hand down towards her waist. I gasp when I slip my hand under her underwear and feel how wet she is. It sends another wave of fire through me and I'm very aware of how wet I am too. I don't want to keep that to myself, so I take her hand and show her how much I want her.

I slide one finger in first and am immediately rewarded with a moan of pleasure. She moans again, louder as I slip another finger inside her.

"Fuck, you feel so good," she breathes into my neck. Her rhythmic breathing is again making me think about what she sounds like when she cums. The thought is irrepressible. I need to make her cum.

I push her down hard so she's sitting on the bench, knocking over the stack of toner boxes on top of the utterly forgotten computer. She helps me tear off her shoes and jeans, and I drop them onto the floor. For the first time I see that she's wearing a black, lace trimmed bikini cut.

Interesting.

Looking down at her I arch an eyebrow in surprise.

"Oh, shut up," she reaches up for my shoulders and pushes me down hard. On my knees I kiss her inner thighs and run a teasing hand over the unexpectedly frilly underwear. Her fingers weave themselves into my hair when I pull her underwear aside and she sighs softly when I gently, playfully lick her for the first time.

Soft sighs turn into moans as my tongue finds out what pleases her the most. Her breaths start to come quicker and I can tell she's getting close. I pull her hips closer and almost immediately she gasps loudly and her back arches. Her fingers tighten in my hair and I can feel the pleasure rippling through her when she cums.

Exhaling deeply, her body relaxes. Disentangling from my hair, she reaches down to cup my cheek in her hand. Before her palm reaches my cheek I catch her wrist and look up, listening. There are the sounds of muffled conversations, printers whirring to life, and people starting their workday filtering through the door.

"Shit," she whispers. Her eyes have gone wide. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!"

I put a silent finger to my lips and I kiss her again, stifling a laugh at her sheer panic and stifling her swearing. When her mouth opens under mine I want us to stay here and make each other cum all day. Instead I help her up off the bench and we retrieve our clothes from the floor. I catch her eye and wink as I'm pulling my shirt back on and we burst into stifled laughter.

Hand on the door handle I close my eyes and breathe deep to clear my head. I look over at her as if to ask "You ready for this?" She nods and I push the door open. There are two photographers in the darkroom. They're leaned over a camera, flipping through photos on the small screen. I don't recognize either of them, thank god. They both look up, surprised to see anyone coming out of the storage room at this hour in the morning.

"Good morning," is said all around before she and I start back towards the office.

"Thanks for your help," she says, cooly and a bit too loud as we reenter the now busy office.

"You're welcome, and I promise I can get your server back on the network as well," I give her a small smile before leaving her with a slight flush to her cheeks, but still looking the consummate professional.