“Please.” The word tears out of me.
“Not yet.”
He brings me there again. And again. Denying me each time, until I’m shaking, until tears of frustration are pricking at my eyes. Until my pussy is clenching against the empty air, frantically trying to milk a cock that isn’t present.
“Nico, please, I can’t—”
“You can.” His voice is rough, almost wrecked. “Again.”
By the fourth build-up, I’m begging. Actually begging, words spilling out that I’ll probably be mortified about later, desperate and needy and nothing like the professional secretary I usually am.
He pulls back just enough to look up at me. His chin is wet. His eyes are black with want. And something else is happening, I realize.
His hips are grinding against the mattress, the sheets twisted in his grip, and when I look down at him properly, I understand.
He’s cumming.
Untouched.
Just from tasting me.
The sight of it, his face contorting with pleasure while his mouth is still on me, pushes me over the edge I’ve been denied. I cum so fucking hard my vision whites out, my thighs clamping around his head, his name ripping from my throat.
“NICO!”
He doesn’t stop.
Keeps licking me through it, keeps drawing outevery aftershock until I’m oversensitive and squirming.
Finally he stands. His eyes never leave mine as he reaches into his back pocket, retrieving a worn leather wallet. He flips it open, and I watch, breath catching, as he plucks out a single foil square.
He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, peeling off his jacket first, letting it fall to the floor with a whisper of expensive fabric. His tie follows, slithering down like a black serpent. Then his shirt. The buttons undone one by one, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen flexing with each movement, every muscle honed for purpose, not show. He drops the shirt, revealing shoulders like carved marble.
His belt buckle clinks, loud in the quiet room. He unfastens it, then the button of his trousers, the zipper a slow, torturous descent. He pushes them down his hips, along with his boxer briefs, and steps out of them.
Oh god.
His erection stands thick and proud, the veins mapping the length like braided silk. It’s... magnificent. Exactly like I remember it. Heavy, with the head flushed a deep burgundy and glistening in thick, white cum from his earlier release. My mouth floods with saliva imagining how it would feel, how it would stretch—
He’s still holding the foil square, and he tears it open with his teeth, never breaking eye contact. Those broad-palmed hands are steady as he rolls the condom down his length. The latex catches slightly at the crown, hugging those thick veins before smoothing down the shaft.
I bite my lip, transfixed by the ritual.The way his abdominal muscles tense as he works. The flex in his biceps. The sheermalenessof him.
Then it’s done, and he’s moving, closing the distance between us in two predatory strides. His scent, that explosive cologne undercut with pure male sweat, washes over me.
He undoes my bra with one smooth motion of his right hand, and it falls away.
A powerful forearm braces beside my head on the bed, caging me in. His other hand captures both my wrists in an unbreakable grip, pinning them above me.
I feel the cool sheets beneath me, the heat of him in front, and between my thighs, a pulsing ache where my damp pussy waits for him.
“Don’t move.”
I should argue or assert some control.
Instead, I nod.
“Good girl.” He pushes into me slowly. Watching my face for every reaction.
