“See?” he murmurs, his gaze burning into mine. “You open for me so easily,zayka.”
“Get off?—”
His hands slide to my thighs, fingers digging into the muscle through the denim of my jeans. He rubs up and down, a slow, maddening rhythm, moving higher with each pass until his thumbs are pressing against the inseam, right where my legs meet my body.
The pressure is directly over my clit, and a jolt of pure, undiluted sensation arcs through me.
My back arches, a silent plea my mind is screaming against.
No.I feel the heat of him through the fabric and how wet I am and I hate my body with everything I have right now.No, no, no?—
“Already wet, aren’t you?” he growls, his voice a dark rumble of satisfaction. He shifts his hand, his palm cupping me through the fabric, applying a firm, circular pressure.
A broken sound escapes me, half moan, half sob.
The dampness in my panties isn’t just moisture anymore; it’s a soaking flood, and I know he can feel the heat of it. My clit aches, clenches around nothing, begging for contact, for friction, forhim.
Oh Lord, this is fucked up. I’m fucked up.
His hands move up, finding my chest. His thumbs brush over my nipples through my shirt and they’re already hard, have been hard for the last five minutes, and when he presses the sound I make is embarrassingly close to a whimper.
Humiliation burns my cheeks, but it’s mixed with a filthy, unwelcome thrill.
His eyes drop to my chest, watching the fabric stiffen above my nipples and a dark, predatory gleam lights his gaze. It turns him on. Seeing my body betray me so completely turns him on.
He leans in, his mouth so close to mine I can feel the heat of his breath. I think he’s going to kiss me, and a part of me, that deep, primal part, yearns for it, my lips parting on a shaky exhale.
He doesn’t kiss me.
He moves his mouth to the side, to the column of my neck. His lips brush the sensitive skin there, and I tremble. Then he bites.
Not a love bite. Not a tease. It’s a sharp, claiming press of teeth, a punishment and a promise all at once. Pain flares, bright and hot, but it doesn’t stop there. It melts, transforming as it spreads, merging with the pulsing need between my legs until I can’t tell where the hurt ends and the pleasure begins. It’s a cocktail of sensation so potent it whites out my vision.
My hands fly up, not to push him away, but to grab the front of his shirt, fisting the material, holding on as my spine curves, offering him more of my throat. A raw, guttural cry is torn from me. Mycuntspasms, a hard, sudden clutch that isn’t an orgasm but is so close to the edge it’s agony.
I’m dripping, throbbing, my swollen heavy with my frantic heartbeat, my entire body alight for him.
He releases my neck with a final lick over the throbbing mark. He pulls back just enough to look at my face, at my blown pupils and parted, panting lips. His own breathing is slightly uneven, and I can feel the hard, thick ridge of his erection pressing against my inner thigh through his pants. The proof of his desire is a stark, intimidating reality.
He smirks. It’s the look of a man who has just won a war without firing a single shot.
“Sex,” he says, his voice a rough, dark vibration, “will not be a problem.”
Then, he simply…stops.
He steps back, removing his hands, breaking all contact. The sudden absence of his heat, his touch, is a physical shock. I sway on the desk, my body screaming in protest, empty, desperate and humming with unspent energy.
“Now get out,” he says, turning his back to me, adjusting his cuff as if he’s just concluded a minor piece of business. “I have work.”
Get out?
The words hit me like a slap.
You arrogant, soulless, son-of-a-bitch. You absolute bastard. I hope you choke on your own blood. I hope the devil has a special seat waiting for you, you cold-blooded, manipulative prick.I want to scream them. I want to pick up the heavy crystal decanter on his side table and smash it over that dark, perfect head. I want to claw the smirk off his face until there’s nothing left but bone.
But my bones have turned to liquid. My voice is trapped behind a wall of shame and unfulfilled desire.
I slide off the desk, my legs shaking so badly I have to clutch the heavy edge of the wood just to keep from collapsing. The cool air hits the damp patch between my legs like a slap, a biting reminder of how thoroughly he just dismantled my defenses.
