Each thrust.
So accurate.
I risk another glance over my shoulder. Sir’s eyes aren’t angry, maybe disappointed? I can’t tell.
No, no, no.I don’t want to disappoint him! He isn’t just finger-fucking me now, no, he’s teaching me—always with the lessons. Every scoop of his fingers, each twist, all the pressure points, a course in boundaries and consequences and who belongs to whom—I get it!
“I—” My protest stops on a deep moan when the heel of his palm connects with my clit, rubbing and massaging in warm, excruciatingly slow circles that feel fucking cruel.
Stars explode behind my eyelids.
“If you wish to play in my office,” he murmurs darkly, “you wait for my permission. Understand?” His tongue flicks the rim of my ear while his other hand leaves the card on the wood, pulling me flush against him. His hard cock throbs at my lower back. I’m crushed between his body—that dangerous appendage—and the table. His voice deepens to a low snarl. “You took something that belongs to me.”
My heart races. “No?—”
“Yes.”His palm and his fingers work in unison—his pointer-finger and middle finger thrusting, stimulating the deep sensual muscle inside me, making my body quake, while his palm kneads my clit, causing my head to roll on my neck. “That little smile when you first saw the credit card? That was mine. Those little dances of excitement? Mine. Every sound, every reaction—it’s all mine. You stole them and gave them to Bolton,” he hisses the name. “Never again.”
I nod, frantic, unable to argue—too afraid I’ll stutter nonsense. “Never again.”
“Now, what do you want?”
“To come, Sir.”
“Ask me nicely, sweet girl.”
“Please, please. Please!”
“Such lovely manners.” He twists his fingers, aims with deadly precision, hits a temperamental set of nerves on the perfect angle, and bears down. He growls, “Come.”
“Sir!” I scream his name, shuddering and convulsing.
“That’s my good girl.” He withdraws his fingers, then steadies me, trailing kisses up my neck, nuzzling, showing me the gentle Clay Butcher. “That’s it.”
He smooths my denim shorts down, tucks the card back into my pocket, then helps me turn and straighten. He kisses my forehead, then my nose, then my lips, and my heart grows.
Flattening his hand down his tie, he says, “Now go change into something less revealing, sweet girl, and get my sons ready.”
I hesitate, lightheaded. With wobbly knees, I wander towards the door, but then he presses the intercom.
“Send Bolton to my office.”
I freeze.
My pleasure-state dissolves.
"Wait.” I turn to face him. “Please don't tell him off."
Clay looks smooth, unaffected, but there is something dark playing underneath his easy, calm exterior, and it frightens me. "You're not children, sweet girl."
"Please don't fire him." My voice comes out smaller than intended, my fingers nervously twisting the ends of my hair. “It’s my fault.”
"I will be as firm as required."
"What did he do wrong?" The words tumble out before I can stop them. “Whatever it is, I am sure I made him do it. Is it about being in here? He didn’t even walk inside. I did. He’s a scaredy-rat.”
His gaze hardens. "You're quite protective of him." His expression darkens, pupils dilating until they chew away the blue rings entirely.
“You said he was mine,” I say. “That I could tell him what to do and where to go. Why do you need to see him?”
