“Eight.”
His fingers trailed down and parted me. I went silent. Couldn’t breathe. He stroked once, a slow glide through slick that made my eyes flutter. He didn’t give me friction. Just proof. How turned on I was bent over my own desk, blouse cuffed around my elbows like makeshift restraints, numbers and manifests under my palms.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “Dripping on Daddy’s floor from a few little smacks.”
“Not…little,” I whispered.
He laughed against my shoulder. Dark and soft. “Nine.”
The slap landed lower, sharper and meaner but so good. The soreness sent heat to my clit and I thought I might come just from the pain and the sound of his voice.
“Ten,” I choked, finishing the count I’d started in my own head.
He didn’t let me up. Just stepped closer, pressing against my back so I could feel his cock already hard through his suit pants. He kissed the side of my neck. His arms banded around my waist, and the cloth of my blouse was still caught at my elbows. He ran both palms down my stomach and under my bra, squeezing and lifting until I was arching involuntarily.
“You did perfect,” he said. “And all this—” He moved one hand lower, between my legs, stroking me with practiced precision. “—belongs to me.”
“Yours, Daddy,” I whimpered, voice cracking.
It wasn’t just possessiveness, though I knew how much he liked seeing me this owned. The warmth that radiated from my ass. The slick high between my thighs where his fingers played with me like a toy designed for his pleasure. "Yours."
He growled and bit my shoulder, just hard enough to leave a mark. His other hand circled my wrist in the bunched sleeve and pinned both arms together at the small of my back. I floated, half-standing, cheek pressed to laminated spreadsheet printouts that had my own highlights and notes in the margin. My world had shrunk to the burn on my skin, the tight grip of his hand, and the obscene slick sounds while he worked me open.
He spanked me again—just once, a little sharper than before—and I jerked against his hold. His fingers circled my clit. I sobbed.
"Not so professional now, are you," he said, but his voice was fond.
I was gone. I didn’t know if I was even saying words. My cheeks burned.
He pushed two fingers inside. No warning, just a slow unyielding stretch that made me rise on my toes, my whole body arching. He curved them up, catching the spot that made my brain white out. My elbows were locked behind me, my chest pressed to the desk, and I moaned, not caring if the whole fucking compound heard.
“After all that data work, you still sound so helpless for me,” he crooned in my ear. “You started wet, but now? You’re about to come on my hand like a slut, aren’t you, printsessa.”
I nodded, couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the noise that left my throat as he fucked his fingers in and out, thumb circling myclit with ruthless control. He didn’t give me a chance to catch my breath. My legs trembled. My hair fell in my face and caught in my mouth, but all I could do was cling to the desk and take whatever he gave me.
I was going to come right there, over my data and my desk, and I wanted it so bad I almost told him. But I didn’t have to. He knew. He always knew.
“You look so pretty bent over your own spreadsheet,” he said. His teeth grazed my neck, his fingers never stopping their motion. “You want to make a mess for Daddy? Want to come for me here, where you’ve been so smart and brave all day?”
“Yes,” I whimpered.
“Then do it. Make a mess, right now. Show me how much you need it.”
He pinched my clit, not hard but so perfectly calibrated to my nerves that the orgasm took me to my knees. I shuddered and sobbed, my thighs shaking, my vision spattered with bright little fireworks as I came hard on his fingers and collapsed against the desk.
“Now,” he said, “I’m going to take what I need.”
His hand left my wrists, and I twisted up for air, pulse still jack-hammering in my throat. My face was hot, my eyes blurry, my thighs sticky with sweat and slick. I heard him unzip as he stepped back, heard the tiny rattle of his belt buckle, and then he was behind me again, one palm hot on the small of my back, pressing me down so I arched for him—offering, open, desperate.
He lined up and pushed in without hesitation, thick and hot, muttering a low Russian curse that I felt in my bones. I whined, back arching, feeling every inch as he filled me, so deep it almost hurt. The delicious ache, the stretch, the sense of being taken—my brain shorted out, my world collapsing to the spot where he met me and the sharp drag of my nipples against the cool wood.
I moaned, loud and unselfconscious, not caring if the soundproofing was good enough or if the guards outside heard. I was so full, so perfectly pinned between the desk and Nikolai’s grip that I couldn’t move, couldn’t even think, just feel. The fabric of my blouse trapped my arms in a tight bundle behind my back, elbows twisted upward, making my tits push out as he rutted into me hard and deep. His hand anchored my wrists, and his body caged mine, and I sobbed his name into the open-air silence because I didn’t care if the whole world knew I was his.
“Fucking perfect,” he gritted, and his free hand slid around to cup my jaw, turning my head so he could see the desperation in my face. “Look at you, printsessa. So smart, so fucking sharp, and this is what you needed all along, wasn’t it?”
The sound that left me was part sob, part “Daddy, please.” The world was just wood and heat and the scrabble of my own nails over the spreadsheets, trying to ground myself when everything else was coming apart.
He fucked me relentlessly, nothing careful, pushing every inch inside like he was staking his claim over and over. I arched, desperate, the edge of the desk digging into my hips while his palm stayed locked on my wrists, holding me in place, making me feel so small and so safe and so absolutely ruined.
