She doesn’t make me wait. Thank fuck.
Her tongue flicks out first—just a lazy, teasing swipe along the underside, from base to tip, savoring the way I twitch against her lips. Then she takes me in, slow but with full force, her mouth a velvet vice as she swallows my dick inch by inch. Fuck, she is a weapon. A ragged groan escapes my throat, fingers tangling in her hair, an instinctive urge to push her deeper, but I know she doesn’t need the help. She’s in complete control, and I can feel it.
Her lips stretch around me, slick with spit, pulling back only to sink down again, deeper this time, her throat flutters as she takes me to the hilt. My hips jerk involuntarily—damn, I can feel myself fighting the urge to just ram myself down her throat, but she holds me there, her nose pressed against my stomach, eyes watering slightly as she swallows around me. I take the sight in, wanting to never ever forget this.
And then she moves. Her head bobs, slow at first, then faster, her tongue swirling around the head every time she pulls back. When her fingers work my balls with just the right pressure my thighstremble. The sounds are filthy—wet, sloppy suction, followed by the occasional choked gasp when she deep-throats me just right. I never want to be somewhere else. This. Just this. And make it forever.
Then she arches her back, hands flat against my stomach, nails digging in like she is trying to anchor herself. She bites my cock, just a bit, but enough that I want to shout from the rooftop. I want to laugh, but it’s impossible with the blood pounding in my ears. She isn’t just sucking me off—she isworshippingmy dick, her lips a sinful altar, her tongue a devil’s plaything. And when my breath hitches, when my hips shudder, when she feels my cock pulse hot and thick down her. My wife swallows every. Last. Drop. And I swear, if I weren’t already married to her, I’d hit the floor right now and beg her to become my wife.
Groaning, I watch her licking her lips like it’s dessert.
That’s enough for me to be hard again.
I pull her up and the minute she stands, I push her against the desk. One hand on her clit and my other already at my revived hard on.
“Don’t be gentle,” she says, and that was all I needed to hear.
We fuck like we are in competition.
Every thrust feels like a point scored, every gasp, a concession.
She starts moving her hips in a counter-rhythm, rubbing her clit against my hand while I fuck her from behind. The desk creaks under us, the glass groaning with every thrust but neither of us cares. It’s way too hot.
I knock her legal pad to the floor but again, neither of us cares.
“You’re going to get me disbarred,” she whispers, and then she clamps down around me, hard.
I feel her start to shake, and it sends me over the edge.
“No one’s here. That’s why you wanted me to come in so early, to make you come, just like the good girl you are.”
I hear her gasp—pant even.
She’s close.
She makes that little sound again and I whisper, “Come for me, Jenna baby.”
I finish with her name in my mouth, not even realizing I said it until she shudders at the same time.
I collapse a little, feeling it pump and pump and pump. I rest on her back for a while, kissing it, kissing her neck. Heaven. This is heaven.
She hands me a tissue, and I wipe us both clean.
After, we look at each other. She’s still on the desk, skirt rucked up around her waist, stockings shredded at the knee. I’m standing between her legs, forehead against hers, breathing like I just played a double overtime.
I kiss her then. Soft and so full of awe. Then a forehead kiss.
She pulls away first, fixing her skirt. “You can’t tell anyone about us having sex in my office, okay?” she says.
“Not even under subpoena?” I joke, and she snorts. I flick her nose and add, “Why would I? This is just my memory to keep.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Jenna
Technically, you’re not supposed to let clients see you sweat, but the human body has its own opinions on that and mine is, right now, a small, humiliating lake beneath the fitted armholes of my best navy suit. I press the back of my hand to my hairline and hope no one notices, then realize that everyone in this hallway is too self-involved or deeply sedated to care about the inner workings of Jenna Davis’s—now Kirillov’s—armpits.
Colton stands at the windowsill, hands clasped behind his back, staring down at the traffic like he’s planning to jump. Not in a tragic, poetic sense—more in a “Would I survive that and what then?” way. And I can’t blame him.
