He reaches for his fly, the metallic zip sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room. He frees himself, and the sight of him—dark and pulsing—makes my stomach do a slow, nauseous flip. He doesn’t go inside me. Not yet. He teases the head of his cock against the slit of my pussy,dragging it upward, smearing my own slickness across my belly.
He waits. He watches the way my pupils blow out until the green of my eyes is almost gone.
Then, he grabs my hips, his fingers bruising the bone, and slams me down.
The impact is total. He fills me so completely it feels like my ribs are stretching, a blunt, heavy invasion that forces a jagged scream from my throat. I collapse against his chest, my breath coming in short, panicked hitches.
“Again,” he growls.
He forces me to lift, the vacuum of his exit making me whimper, and then he slams me down again. He does it with a rhythmic, punishing brutality until he lets out a low, ragged moan, his head falling back against the velvet.
“You’re a fucking siren,” he breathes, his eyes closed.
He reaches back to the side table, his movements lazy and arrogant. He takes a generous heap of the white powder between his thumb and forefinger and rubs it directly onto his bottom lip, staining the dark skin with a stark, chemical frost.
“Lick it off,” he says, his eyes snapping open, burning with a feverish intensity. “Every grain, Wendy. If you miss a bit, I’ll start over. And I don’t think your heart can take another round of starting over.”
I lean forward, my hair draping over his shoulders like a shroud. My tongue is numb, my mouth dry, but I begin to lick. The bitterness is sharp, an electric sting that travels straight to my brain. I’m sliding up and down on him, the rhythmic wet sliding of our bodies the only sound in the room besides my broken sobs.
I’m crying into his mouth, the salt of my tears mixing with the bitter cocaine. I’m a mess of fluids and fear, my hips working instinctively even as my mind screams for an end. I slide up, the air hitting me, and then I sink back down, taking him all the way, feeling him pulse deep inside me.
“No,” I whisper against his lips, my voice a thinned-out thread of reality. “Please… no more.”
“You don’t get to say no to me,” he murmurs, his hands locking onto my waist, picking up the pace until the chair is creaking under us. “You’re the widow who forgot how to mourn. You’re my little addict now.”
I’m lost. The fire is a roar in my ears, the drug is a white-hot sun in my skull, and the man beneath me is the only thing keeping me from floating away into the dark. I sink my teeth into my lip to keep from screaming his name, the room dissolving into a haze of gold and white and the crushing weight of my own ruin.
Felix doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let me breathe. He stands, hoisting my dead weight up with a grunt of effort, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as the cocaine-fuelled tremors rack my thighs. He marches toward the massive mahogany desk in the centre of the room, the surface cluttered with crystal decanters and leather-bound ledgers that cost more than a human life.
He drops me onto the cold, polished wood. The chill of the mahogany is a shock against my flushed, sweaty skin. He flips me over with a rough shove, my chest pressing into the hard surface, my cheek sliding against a cool brass paperweight.
“Look at you,” he pants, his hands roaming over the curves of my backside, his palms stinging as they slap against my skin. “Glistening like a prize.”
He grabs my hair, winding it around his fist and pulling until my back arches, my spine a taut bow. I’m sobbing, my forehead pressed against the desk, the white dust still coating my tongue and making my throat feel like it’s closing. Then, I feel the blunt, hot head of him pressing against me again.
He doesn’t slam home this time. He’s cruel. He slides in an inch—just enough to stretch the entrance, to make me gasp—and then he stops.
“Felix… please,” I moan, the sound muffled by the wood.
“Shh,” he whispers, leaning over me, his chest hot against my back. He slides in another inch. Slow. Methodical. It’s a torturous invasion, every ridge of him felt in agonising detail. “I want you to feel every second of this. I want you to remember who owns your breath.”
He pushes deeper, inch by fucking inch, until he’s buried to the hilt, and I’m screaming into the empty room, my fingers clawing at the edge of the desk, leaving white marks in the wood. The pleasure and the pain are indistinguishable now, a blurred, vibrating mess in my brain.
Suddenly, the phone on the desk—inches from my face—begins to chirp. A high, clinical electronic pulse.
Felix doesn’t pullout. He keeps his weight on me, his hips pinned against mine, and reaches out a steady hand to hit the speakerphone. He begins to move again, a shallow, wet sliding that makes me whimper.
“Yes?” Felix grunts, his voice thick with exertion.
“Felix,” Viktor’s voice crackles through the line, sounding like a ghost in the machine. “We have a situation. You need to move the asset to the secondary location. Now.”
Felix doesn’t stop his rhythm. He pulls out almost entirely and drives back in, a sharp, hard thrust that forces a cry from my lips. “I’m a bit busy, Viktor. What could possibly be so urgent?”
“Hook is through the gates,” Viktor says, and the name hits me like a physical blow. “And he brought the boy with him. Peter is alive, and they are currently turning your foyer into a slaughterhouse.”
The world stops. The cocaine, the heat, the shame—it all vanishes in a heartbeat.
Peter.
