I clutch the desk edge, my knuckles stone, and Damien sets a demanding rhythm, each thrust driving my thighs harder against the chipped wood. That small pain grounds me in reality, aware of every movement. The hardness of his cock. The satisfying friction. The pleasure building low in my abdomen.
My mind tries latching onto something else. Anything. The faded periodic table on the wall; my incomplete assignment for history class.
But my body rebels, breath panting in and out of my lungs. An influx of sensation that won’t let me disappear into my head. Not when each pump of his hips hits a spot inside that has me biting my lips, stifling noises.
“That’s it,” he breathes, his fingers curling over my shoulder, pressing tight against the muscles as he steadies me for another brutal thrust, and another. “Those noises drive me fucking crazy. You’re made for me.”
I drive my elbow back into his abdomen, nostrils flaring with sudden rage.
He’s the one who spent weeks winning me over, being brazenly honest, convincing me he was trustworthy, that we were in partnership.
And Damien’s the one who betrayed us. Not giving a shit about anybody but himself.
“You selfish arsehole.”
But my shouted whisper isn’t enough.
There aren’t enough curses in the world to ease the savage sting of his betrayal.
I slap behind me and he chuckles, bending until his chest is hard against my back, his amusement blowing hot into my ear. And all the while, my body keeps climbing. The pleasure keeps building. Irrational, inevitable.
“Fight all you want. But you know this is what we both need. You feel so perfect wrapped around me.”
His ragged whisper takes me over the edge, my body convulsing around him. I’m shaking, muscles locking and releasing in waves, my eyes squeezed shut, the world nothing but his touch, his hard cock pounding into me, the animal sounds torn from my throat.
And Damien groans, swelling inside me, his rhythm stuttering. My shuddering aftershocks draw him deeper, and he clutches my hips, cock twitching with each pulse of his release. Then his arms wrap around me, holding tight, the press of his weight increasing as he stumbles, legs shaking.
I wait for him to withdraw but he stays in place, ruffing my hair with his sighs of contentment.
Finally, he pulls back, legs still between mine so I can’t close them, his palm stroking my lower back in a circular motion, his cum spilling down my inner thighs.
“Beautiful.” He steps back, a whisper of fabric and the clink of metal as he adjusts his clothes.
My kilt bunches at my waist, underwear tangled at my feet. I fix my clothing, close my legs, but stay bent over the desk, uncertain whether they’ll support my weight. My head floats, light and dizzy in the airless room.
“Nothing’s changed.” Damien’s breathlessness eases with each word, becoming eerily calm. “You’re still mine. I’m still yours.”
The afterglow recedes and I straighten, pushing away from the desk with trembling arms. The front of my blouse is stained with dust. My mouth feels gritty.
“Wishful thinking.” The words come out raw, scraping my throat.
Damien’s already composed, belt fastened, shirt tucked in like the last ten minutes never happened. Only the flush across his cheekbones shows his exertion.
“Luckily, what I wish tends to come true.”
His shoes scuff against the cheap floorboards, and he’s towering above me, adjusting my blouse collar, fingers combing my hair.
“And right now, what I wish is that you’ll take this ticket”—he pulls it from his pocket, along with a business card—“and visit this boutique for a dress.” He taps the embossed gold letters I’m in no state to read. “They know to charge everything back.”
He presses his forehead against mine, then straightens again, and my throat pulls tight with sorrow.
The truth is no one has ever made me feel how Damien does. He doesn’t flinch away from my broken parts, he leans in, admiring every crack, stroking those jagged edges.
I want him to put things right, but I won’t cheat myself by accepting half measures.
And my sadness is because I don’t think he can.
Heat pulses off Damien’s chest as he shifts closer. “You believe me about Chelsea’s plans.” A statement, not a question.
