"Walk to the boardroom table, little deer.”
Fuck.
That’s a yes.
I comply without hesitation, my breath catching when his hand touches my hip, guiding me until the pretty polished wood presses against my core.
"Hands flat on the table," he instructs.
Leaning forward, I spread my fingers across the cool surface—this table is huge and beautiful, the kind that’s carved over years and needs a dozen men to manoeuvre. “Like this,” I ask, pawing the grain, nerves rushing down a heavy exhale.
His warm breath caresses my neck. "That innocent tremble in your voice while your pussy weeps for my fingers... quite thecontrast.”
I part my lips.
He slides his leg between my thighs, separating them. I widen my stance instinctively, hyper-aware of this dangerous man at my back. Aware of his palm now sliding up the outside of my thigh, excruciatingly wary of his large body locking me in place.
His hand trails over my hip, and down to cup my pussy through my denim shorts. "So warm here," he groans. “Warm and wet for my cock.”
"Sir..."
Palming between my thighs, he massages, applying pressure as I grind and rock on the cradle of his hand.
Feels so good.
"Tell me why you’re wet?”
"Because of you, Sir."
Two fingers slip beneath my shorts and the cotton of my knickers, spearing inside me, claiming what is his.
I cry out instantly, pulsing around the two meticulous and demanding digits. My thighs tremble, useless in their attempt to steady me, the edge of the table biting into the front of my thighs as I arch back—an invitation, a surrender.
“Please,Sir.”
Don’t be mad.
He finger-fucks me against the table, keeping himself behind me, visibly and emotionally out of reach.
With just two fingers, he commands the rise and fall of my pulse. With his formidable body behind me, surrounding me, intimidating me, he maps my boundaries between need and fear, arousal and frustration.
There’s no warning before he presses his knuckles inside me, a deliberate thrust that makes my vision hazy and my neck arch backwards.
I tremble between him and the table.
Sweat slides down my throat. I flex my hands on theglossy surface as my pulse races and warmth simmers through me. I curl my toes, readying myself, taking his thrusts, but he speeds up, and my knees buckle.
Moaning, I peer over my shoulder and up into his gaze, craving reassurance and affection. His eyes meet mine in a moment of love, tenderness, and ownership in equal measure. He remains perfectly unruffled, every hair in place while I come undone. The only hints of his arousal are in the pace and rhythm of his breathing and the warmth radiating from his chest against my spine.
I gasp as he builds and builds the pleasure inside my core, but holds me captive, balancing, high and then low, edging me closer to that wonderful release, then pulling me back to drive home his authority and control.
A frustrated groan escapes me. “Sir!”
Suddenly, he shoves his free hand into my back pocket and retrieves the sleek credit card. He holds it before me like a reward for a well-trained pet, but the message is clear—Iamin trouble.Fuck.
With a deliberate gesture, he drops it on the table, inches from my fingertips, then flattens his palm over it, pinning it in place.
“Before we discuss shopping plans…” His voice is honey laced with gravel, every syllable curling around me like a beast holding its prey for the night. “We need to address your curiosity about my mail.” He flexes his fingers inside me, dominating me with a pace so precise he makes my teeth clench between moans. My thoughts narrow to his fingers, to the moments between one inward thrust and the outward draw, and the next and the next.
