Page 24 of Mister St. James

“Yes, why?” she asks suspiciously.

I laugh and guide her to the windows, floor to ceiling, thirty-four floors up, city lights undulating below us. “I’m not done with you yet.”

I press her bare chest to the cold glass, and she shivers at the sudden temperature difference, but doesn’t pull away. I step behind her, press my cock against her ass, still clothed but so hard it hurts.

I bring my lips to her ear. “Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you perform?”

She shakes her head, breathing hard.

“I thought, ‘She was made to be seen.’” I let my hands trace the lines of her harness, down her belly. “If you scream now, the whole city could probably hear you.”

She laughs, a low, wicked sound. “Make me.”

I free my cock from the prison of jean and line myself up behind her, one hand on her throat, the other guiding my cock to her entrance. She’s still so wet I slide in with almost no resistance. The cold glass at her breasts, the city stretching out below, my hands on her bound body, it’s fucking obscene.

She moans, loud, and I know she wants to be heard. I fuck her slowly at first, making her feel every inch, every pressure point where the rope bites in. She arches her back, pushes her ass into me, demanding more. I slam her against the glass, both of us panting, her breath fogging the glass.

The reflection in the window is a fever dream. Her body wrapped in red, my hands framing her hips, both of us wild, feral. The light from the buildings outside flickers over us, turning her skin to gold, then blue, then black.

She starts to come again, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the glass. “Don’t stop,” she begs. “Please, just—”

I don’t. I grab the ropes at her chest, using them as handles, and fuck her harder, faster, until I feel myself losing control. The orgasm rips through me, violent and sweet, both of us sliding down the window until we’re kneeling, gasping for breath.

Neither of us moves for a long minute. Then I turn her around, cradle her in my lap, and kiss her. Slow, soft, the opposite of everything we just did.

When our breathing calms, I carry her to the bedroom. I lay her on the bed and untie every knot with the same care I used to build them, massaging each mark, kissing every bruise.

She hums with pleasure, curling into my hands, and when the last rope slips free, she pulls me down beside her.

“I want you just as naked as I am.” She sighs and I oblige so immediately it’s pathetic. She watches me undress with heavy-lidded eyes, wild curls fanned over my pillows and God help me I want her again.

We lie together, tangled, the city lights painting our skin with color. I stroke her hair, and she traces the lines on my chest where her nails raked when we were in the office.

“Still want to sign the release tomorrow?” I ask.

She laughs. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

We lie together, her head on my chest, both of us spent and quiet.

She traces a finger along my jaw. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

I kiss the top of her head. “We are,”

We fall asleep like that, the window open to the city’s white noise, our bodies marked with what we’ve done.

Tomorrow we’ll sign the paperwork, make it official, whatever the club needs. But tonight, there’s nothing left but the binding, and the pleasure in being completely, dangerously known.

Chapter thirteen

Cerebrito

Catalina

A month isn’t long, not really, but in the accelerated half-life of office politics and kink, it feels like I’ve lived and died three times since Aiden and I decided to stop pretending. A month is how long it’s been since I agreed, out loud, that he’s my boyfriend, and he agreed, out loud, that I’m his. We did not announce it publicly except for in the Velvet Stag. But here at PDI, we just keep showing up at the same time, sharing takeout in his office with the blinds down, and occasionally fucking with the kind of intensity that makes you see God.

But in the daylit world of Precision Dynamics, we’re still boss and subordinate. The code is clear. No special privileges, no sidelong glances, nothing for HR to annotate in their little black file. Sometimes I forget, and then remember, and the jolt of excitement is its own reward. Like today, for example.

The call with Zurich is at 9:00. At 8:59 he’s in his office, dialing in with the ice-cold composure of a man about to perform surgery on a moving train. I step in with a last-minute sheaf of updated numbers, place them on his desk, and wait. The laptop camera catches only the top half of his body, which is good, because I have plans for the other half.