She manhandles him--there's no other word for it, really-- around, not even bothering to stop and detangle his fingers from her hair, and shoves him into one of the cupboards that makes up a wall of the room. A wardrobe, from the rattle of wire coathangers about Owen's head.
He swears under his breath, taking cues from her stealth and urgency without even thinking, and she crams in after him, shutting out all but the tiniest bit of light as she closes the door hastily behind her.
"Donna?"
It's Mister Smith, he knows it is, would recognise the way he instills a kind of manic enthusiasm into a single word anywhere. Ordinarily Owen quite likes having it focused on him, as wont to praise as his boss is. Why Mister Smith's PA would want to hide from him in the wardrobe for breaking a some bloody corporate art is beyond Owen's comprehension.
"Look," he begins. "Why--"
"Shut up," she hisses, nearly silent but a whole lot of air involved, inflating her lungs and pushing out her chest against him.
He obeys, mainly because he's just realised he's crammed into a small dark space with a pair of some of the most fabulous tits he's ever come this close to and, as his eyes adjust, he realises just how much taller she is.
Tall enough that just looking down gives him a brilliant view of her cleavage, the perfect vantage point to just... dive into the glory that's heaving with her panting breaths, a crevasse he could lose... any number of bits of his anatomy to, happily.
Owen swallows dryly, throat clicking. "What..." he says. "Why are we in here, anyway?" he makes himself ask, fighting an internal battle between the demands of his curiosity and the increasingly enthusiastic demands of what's in his pants.
"It's my boss," Donna hisses, turning her head to peer through a crack of the doorway. The change in pose casts a beam of light over the taut tendons of the side of her neck, and the strands of bronze hair clinging to the skin, obviously still damp from their exertions. "I think he's an alien."
Owen blinks, unable to process before she continues-- "Oh shit, shit, buggering shit--" then turns rapidly away from the door again-- "Just play along, will you?" And she grabs his ears and shoves his face into her bosom.
He doesn't really take in what happens after that, only when he surfaces again the only thing keeping him upright are his arms slung around Donna's waist and her fisted hands in his hair. The sting of it makes his eyes water a little. That and the sudden abundance of light.
Mister Smith's standing by the open door. "There you are," he says cheerfully, then, "Oooh. Oh! Sorry--I, Donna--Sorry!" He scratches a hand nervously against the back of his neck and Owen's pretty sure that this isn't quite how this situation is meant to go.
"Did you need to--? I mean, I could--I'm terribly--"
"Quite all right," Donna says, stepping out of the wardrobe again with considerable dignity. Owen's not quite ready to let go yet, his arms circle her waist from behind and he stumbles after her.
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"Oh bloody hell!" Ginger--must be Donna--whispers, sounding genuinely panicked. "Bloody fucking hell!"
She manhandles him--there's no other word for it, really-- around, not even bothering to stop and detangle his fingers from her hair, and shoves him into one of the cupboards that makes up a wall of the room. A wardrobe, from the rattle of wire coathangers about Owen's head.
He swears under his breath, taking cues from her stealth and urgency without even thinking, and she crams in after him, shutting out all but the tiniest bit of light as she closes the door hastily behind her.
"Donna?"
It's Mister Smith, he knows it is, would recognise the way he instills a kind of manic enthusiasm into a single word anywhere. Ordinarily Owen quite likes having it focused on him, as wont to praise as his boss is. Why Mister Smith's PA would want to hide from him in the wardrobe for breaking a some bloody corporate art is beyond Owen's comprehension.
"Look," he begins. "Why--"
"Shut up," she hisses, nearly silent but a whole lot of air involved, inflating her lungs and pushing out her chest against him.
He obeys, mainly because he's just realised he's crammed into a small dark space with a pair of some of the most fabulous tits he's ever come this close to and, as his eyes adjust, he realises just how much taller she is.
Tall enough that just looking down gives him a brilliant view of her cleavage, the perfect vantage point to just... dive into the glory that's heaving with her panting breaths, a crevasse he could lose... any number of bits of his anatomy to, happily.
Owen swallows dryly, throat clicking. "What..." he says. "Why are we in here, anyway?" he makes himself ask, fighting an internal battle between the demands of his curiosity and the increasingly enthusiastic demands of what's in his pants.
"It's my boss," Donna hisses, turning her head to peer through a crack of the doorway. The change in pose casts a beam of light over the taut tendons of the side of her neck, and the strands of bronze hair clinging to the skin, obviously still damp from their exertions. "I think he's an alien."
Owen blinks, unable to process before she continues-- "Oh shit, shit, buggering shit--" then turns rapidly away from the door again-- "Just play along, will you?" And she grabs his ears and shoves his face into her bosom.
He doesn't really take in what happens after that, only when he surfaces again the only thing keeping him upright are his arms slung around Donna's waist and her fisted hands in his hair. The sting of it makes his eyes water a little. That and the sudden abundance of light.
Mister Smith's standing by the open door. "There you are," he says cheerfully, then, "Oooh. Oh! Sorry--I, Donna--Sorry!" He scratches a hand nervously against the back of his neck and Owen's pretty sure that this isn't quite how this situation is meant to go.
"Did you need to--? I mean, I could--I'm terribly--"
"Quite all right," Donna says, stepping out of the wardrobe again with considerable dignity. Owen's not quite ready to let go yet, his arms circle her waist from behind and he stumbles after her.