Chapter 8: The Parking Garage Reward

The sixth floor had gone quiet by six-thirty, the last stragglers drifting toward the elevators with their coats slung over arms and briefcases bumping against legs. I stayed at my desk longer than necessary, pretending to run one final server diagnostic while the overhead lights clicked off in sections, leaving the open-plan space in soft shadow. My shirt pocket still held the damp weight of the black thong Sarah had given me after the Zoom call two days earlier; the fabric had never left my possession, its faint scent a constant reminder against my chest. The text she’d sent after the stairwell still glowed on my phone screen: Parking garage. My car. Bring the thong.

I took the stairs down, the concrete echoing under my shoes, and stepped into the underground garage. The air was cooler here, heavy with the smell of oil and exhaust, the yellow overhead lights casting long, hazy pools across the rows of cars. A few vehicles still idled near the exit ramp—headlights sweeping as colleagues backed out, tires crunching over the painted lines. Not empty. Not even close. The semi-public hum of engines and distant radio music made my skin prickle with that familiar electric edge.

I spotted her car in the middle row, a silver sedan tucked between two SUVs. Sarah was already there, leaning against the hood in her long coat, the charcoal pencil skirt from the meeting still visible beneath the hem. She didn’t wave. She simply crooked one finger, eyes locked on mine as I approached.

The moment I reached her she turned, planted both palms on the cool metal hood, and arched her back. The coat fell open at the sides. No blouse underneath. Just the skirt, hiked high enough to bare the full curve of her ass. She spread her stance wider, heels planted firm on the concrete, and glanced over her shoulder.

“You kept it wet for me?” Her voice was low, almost conversational, as if we were discussing quarterly reports instead of the fact that two cars were still reversing ten spaces away.

I nodded, throat tight, and pulled the thong from my pocket. The lace was still faintly sticky from the all-hands meeting and everything that had followed in the stairwell. She took it without looking, tucked it into her coat pocket, then reached back and spread her cheeks with both hands.

“Start here. Slow. I want to feel your tongue before anything else.”

I dropped to my knees right there on the garage floor, the concrete cold and gritty through my slacks. The position put me eye-level with her bare ass, the skin still warm from the long day, a faint sheen of sweat glistening in the low light. No one had walked past yet, but the sound of a car door slamming two rows over made my stomach tighten. I leaned in, nose brushing the cleft, and dragged my tongue upward in one unhurried pass.