“No. I can’t. I can’t.” But my arms are around his neck, and I’m not pushing him away. When his fingers press against me through fabric, I can’t stop the whimper that escapes my throat.
“Yes, you can.” He rubs slow circles against my clit, and even through two layers of clothing it’s enough to make my knees buckle. “Good girl. Let me make you feel good.”
“Someone could come in—”
“They won’t come in.” His free hand works at the button of my pants. “This is my hotel.”
The button gives. The zipper slides down. His hand slips inside my underwear, and then his fingers arethere, sliding through the slick heat of me, and I have to bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out.
“Fuck.” The word is spoken in soft tones of awe. “So wet. So tight. You’re soaked for me, Mina.”
One finger pushes inside, and my back arches off the wall.
“That’s it.” He works his finger in and out, slow and deliberate, his thumb finding my clit. “That’s my girl. Look at you, so desperate, so needy. You’ve missed this. Admit it.”
“I haven’t,” I sob.
A second finger joins the first, and the stretch makes me gasp.
“You have.” He curls his fingers inside me, finding that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes. “You’ve thought about this every night. Touching yourself in your lonely bed, wishing it were me.”
I want to deny it. I want to tell him he’s wrong, that I haven’t thought about him, haven’t dreamed about him, haven’t woken up aching and empty and furious at myself for wanting someone who destroyed me.
But his fingers are inside me, his thumb is on my clit, and I can feel the orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter—
He stops, fingers pushed all the way to the knuckles inside me.
“Don’t stop.” The words tear out of me. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please, Cristiano.”
“Say it.” His fingers are still stretching deep inside me, but motionless, and the lack of friction is agony. “Tell me what you want.”
I’m shaking and trembling in his hands. “Make me come.”
His fingers start moving again, and I nearly sob with relief.
But he doesn’t let me finish. Every time I get close, every time I’m right on the edge, he pulls back. Slows down. Leaves me gasping and desperate while he watches my face with those burning amber eyes.
“Cristiano.” I’m begging now. I don’t care. “Please.Please.”
“I love seeing you like this.” His voice is rough, almost drugged. “So vulnerable. So needy. Begging for me. I could keep you here for hours. Edge you until you’re crying, until you can’t remember your own name.”
“Please.”
“On the table.”
“What?”
He withdraws his fingers, and I whimper at the loss. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, setting me on the edge of the break room table. Papers scatter. A mug crashes to the floor. Neither of us pays any attention.
He hooks my thigh up and pushes me onto my back.
My body is on fire for him, and I let him manhandle me. He tugs my pants down my legs, my underwear following, and then I’m spread out, half naked and trembling, while Cristiano stands over me, his erection thick and prominent through his pants.
“I’ve dreamed about this.” He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee. “Every night.” Another kiss, higher up my thigh. “The taste of you.” Higher still, his breath hot against my inner thigh. “The sounds you make.”
