His lips edged up.
Cruel. Calculated. Cold.
I braced myself.
“This might hurt,” he drawled, snapping something open.
My eyes flew to the white tube in his hand.
He dragged my underwear off, his nails catching my hip. Pain I could welcome. Pain was straightforward. Pain didn’t ask anything of me.
I stared at the white ceiling. I had a nice buzz going and I could have played my part—should have, probably—but something inside me kept rebelling against it. Against the warmth I’d felt ten minutes ago and the contract I’d thrown in his face to kill it.
God help me, I tried.
Cold liquid smeared over my ass. The memory of the kitchen surfaced immediately and I swallowed. The sound of his zip. More squirting from the tube.
The music still filtered up from below. The city still glittered in the window behind him.
“Are you going to be long?” I said, with a yawn.“I’m cold.”
“This office has seen plenty of whores come and go,” he said, his voice stiff and clipped.“You’re just another one passing through for a few minutes.”
Ouch.
“I’m considering who the real whore is here,” I said lazily.
He gripped my hips and yanked me forward. My legs were tossed over his shoulders, spreading me open against the edge of the desk.
There was no warm-up. No gentle easing. Just the hard blunt pressure of his cock against my rear passage. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, focusing on my breathing, grateful for the lubricant as he began to forge his way inside me — slow but relentless, my body opening reluctantly around him.
His hand moved around my leg and closed around my throat.
My eyes snapped open.
“Watch me,” he spat, fury blazing in his pale eyes.
His fingers and thumb pressed into my neck. I blinked against the pressure.
But I kept my eyes on the lunatic.
His chest rose and fell as he tried to steady his breathing, but the flare of his nostrils and the erratic roll of his hips gave him away. He suddenly flung himself forward until I cried out. Pain bloomed deep inside me.
Satisfaction lit his eyes.
“So good,” I moaned.“Da, fuck me harder, daddy.”
He growled and punched the desk lamp clean off the surface.
The dull thud of metal hitting the floor. The crack and scatter of the glass bulb shattering across the boards. My heart rate spiked.
He planted both hands on either side of my head and used the desk as leverage, throwing his full weight behind each stroke. I breathed through it. Lived inside the pain. Rejoiced—quietly, privately, entirely—at the feel of him losing control.
I didn’t think about the cost.
Why should I?
My life was already ruined.
