会议室里的中国老板无码流出

I still can’t stop thinking about that afternoon with my Chinese boss, and honestly, the way he took control in that empty conference room was something else entirely. We’d stayed late under the pretense of reviewing a client’s deck, but the second the door clicked shut, his usual reserved demeanor melted into something hungrier, and he pinned me against the cold glass table, hiking my skirt up with rough, deliberate hands. The hum of the projector behind us was still running, casting a soft glow over his sharp jawline as he whispered in Mandarin, his breath hot on my neck, and I could feel his hardness pressing insistently against my thigh. He spun me around, bent me forward, and slid into me from behind with a slow, deep thrust that made me gasp, the slick sounds of our bodies echoing off the sterile walls. His fingers dug into my hips, pulling me back against him with each rhythmic pound, while his other hand covered my mouth to stifle my moans, and I remember thinking how dangerous and thrilling it was to be so exposed yet so hidden. He flipped me onto my back, lifted my legs over his shoulders, and drove into me harder, his dark eyes locked on mine as I unraveled completely, climaxing in a shuddering wave right as he spilled inside me with a guttural groan. We stayed tangled for a minute, catching our breath, and then he straightened his tie and said, “Back to work,” as if my knees weren’t still trembling.