"You're crazy," I hiss, but my body is already betraying me. I'm so wet I can feel the slickness against my thighs.
"I’m a man who won a bet." He gestures to the desk. "Strip for me."
I want to say no but I pull the tie of my robe without realizing what I’m doing. It falls open, sliding off my shoulders, leaving me completely bare in the dim light of the study. I feel exposed. Vulnerable.
"Sit," he commands. His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide until there’s only a thin ring of green left.
I glare at him, my stubbornness fighting a losing battle against the sheer, animal magnetism of the man. Slowly, I sit on the edge of the desk. The wood is cool against my bare skin, a jarring contrast to the fire in my core.
"Push your legs up," he murmurs. "Open for me, Gia."
I glare at him and try to keep my knees together, to maintain some shred of my dignity, but Rafael isn't having it.
"I didn't say hide. I said open for me." He leans in closer, his face inches from mine. I can smell the cedar, the soap, and the dark, intoxicating scent of his arousal. "Hands behind you. Lean back. Push your legs up and show me exactly what I won."
I bite my lips and do it. I have to. My breath comes in shallow hitches as I spread my legs wide, exposing the dark, wet curls of my center to his unblinking stare. I feel a frantic, liquid pulse between my thighs, a needy throb that matches the beat of my heart.
"You're so fucking beautiful when you're being obedient," he murmurs, his eyes scanning the pink, swollen folds of my sex. He stays back, hands still braced on the desk, his self-control a terrifying display of power. "Touch yourself, Gia. I want to see how you do it when you think no one is looking. I want to see how much you want me to replace your fingers with mine."
I reach down. My fingers are slick the moment they touch me. I find the little bud of my clit and circle it, a low, broken sound escaping my throat.
"Faster," he growls. "Look at me, Gia. I want to see your eyes when the feeling takes over."
I look up. His eyes are two pits of dark, predatory green. He’s watching my hand move with an intensity that makes me feel like I’m being dismantled.
"L-Like this?" I pant, my hips starting to tilt up, seeking the friction.
"Yeah. Just like that. Tell me what it feels like, Gia. Tell me how it feels to have the Butcher watch you fall apart."
"I h-hate you," I moan, my head falling back, my hair spilling across the documents and maps I was supposed to be stealing. "I hate how much I... oh god..."
"Tell me who you're doing this for," he commands, his voice a low, dirty rasp that hits me like a physical caress. "Say my name."
"For you," I sob, my fingers working frantically now. I slide two fingers inside myself, my internal muscles clamping down on them instantly. I’m so tight, so full of him even without him touching me. "For you, Rafael!"
"Good girl. Now finish. Give me my wish."
I increase the pace, my thumb rubbing my clit with a rhythmic, punishing pressure. I’m hovering on the edge, the tension coiled so tight in my lower belly it’s a physical pain. I see him shift, his own jaw tightening, his breathing becoming a heavy, jagged echo of mine. He looks wrecked, but he doesn't break. He doesn't touch me. He makes me earn it.
Then it hits.
A violent, liquid explosion that starts in my toes and slams through my entire body. I scream, my back arching off the desk, my internal muscles pulsing in a desperate, rhythmic sequence. I cum so hard I can’t see, the world turning into a blurred haze of pleasure and crushing shame.
I slump back against the desk, gasping for air, my hand falling away, slick and trembling.
Rafael stays there for a long moment, staring. He looks like a man who just watched a star collapse. Slowly, he stands up, his movements stiff. He reaches for his shirt on the chair, pulling it on with a deliberate, cold composure that makes the distance between us feel like an ocean.
"The logs are in the drawer," he says, his voice flat once more.
He turns to leave, and that’s when I see it. His trousers are straining, the heavy, aggressive length of him putting a brutaltension on the fabric. He’s stone-hard, his movements stiff and forced as he fights the urge to turn back and bury himself in me. He walks with the measured, agonizing gait of a man holding back an avalanche.
He doesn't look back. Not once. He just reaches the door, his frame filling the entrance for a heartbeat, and then he’s gone, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.
I stay there, naked and shivering on his desk, the scent of cedar and my own release heavy in the air.
What the fuck just happened?
The next evening, the high of the encounter is gone, replaced by the cold, biting reality of my life.
