Simon isn't one for escapades at work.
He thinks about it, about curling his fingers around the band across Johnny's neck and tugging it while the Scotsman chokes on his cock. But he isn't so desperate for it that he can't wait.
With his back to the wall and Johnny's thigh between his legs, he feels no better than a horny teenager. Grinding down on the man's thigh and panting into the crook of his neck while his sergeant utters filth into his ear.
"There ye go, darlin. Take wit ye can get."
Simon is aware that the humiliation is causing both the tips of his ears to burn red and his cock to jerk in the confines of his boxers, but he can't voice his complaints without risking them getting caught fondling each other in a cupboard.
And it's difficult to feel irritated when every roll of his hips bleeds the tension from his shoulders.
His shirt is stuck to his back, skin damp with sweat, and his breath is wet against Johnny's neck, not that the man voices any complaints about it. In fact, he offers his encouragement by grabbing a handful of Simon's arse and gripping so tightly that the pale skin will likely bruise even under his jeans.
"This wit ye were aw up in a fuss fir? Too hard up fir it? Poor lamb."
For a man Simon has repeatedly brought to tears, Johnny has no problem with being a condescending little prick. Even when Simon is crushing his thigh between his legs like a vice in his desperation to get off.
He resents that Johnny is so familiar with him in the biblical sense that the man can recognise the spasm in his lower back as he tries to keep a steady rhythm, the familiar grunt of a man desperately trying to stay quiet.
"Gonnae cum in yer drawers on the clock? Dirty wee fucker."
Simon feels no shame about sinking his teeth into Johnny's shoulder, biting the other man's shirt, and wetting the fabric with his saliva as he cums. It's almost worth the aggravation of dampness that spreads through the boxers he has to wear for the rest of the day.
