Page 18 of Rogue’s Mark

Cocky bastard.

I pull him back to my mouth before he can get any more smug about it. That turns into another kiss. And another. And I'm half sitting on the edge of the table with Armen between my knees, his hands on me, his mouth erasing every thought in my head except for those about him.

He gets my jeans open, his fingers diving into my wetness, and there goes my brain.

"Armen—"

"Quiet," he growls.

I comply. His fingers work me leisurely and deliberately, and he watches my face, tagging my reaction.

"Look at me," he says.

I didn't realize I'd closed my eyes. I open them.

He holds my gaze while his fingers move, and I am not going to survive this man. Which is fine, because I am not sure I want to, anyway.

He strokes me slowly at first, noticing what makes me catch my breath, what makes my hips roll toward him. When he finds the right rhythm, I make a noise I don't intend to and his eyes darken. He does it again. And again. Two fingers pushing inside me while his thumb works my clit in slow circles, my grip on the table tightening because I need something to hold onto or I'm going to slide right off.

His breath is coming harder. “Beautiful… you’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters.

"Armen, please⁠—"

He doesn't speed up. He presses deeper and crooks his fingers. I gasp so hard, it sounds like a sob, my thighs clamping around his hand, demanding more.

"Please," I beg like the pitiful thing I’ve been reduced to.

"I heard you," he says, unhurried. Teasing fucker.

He works me like this until I'm shaking, until I'm grinding against his hand, chasing the edge he keeps dangling just out of reach. Then he curls his fingers just so and his thumb presses hard.

Then he pulls me off the table and turns me, one hand flat between my shoulder blades, pushing me forward and down. His mouth finds the back of my neck while his hands deal with what remains of our clothing, and the cold edge of the table is a shock against my front.

"Still with me?" he asks.

"Not sure," I manage.

He makes a sound that might be a laugh. Then he pushes inside my aching pussy and I stop being funny about it. He doesn’t give me a second to adjust and while his initial thrusts burn, I also like it and only want more.

He sets a pace that’s measured and relentless. He knows where he's going and he takes his time getting there. Every time I get close, he pulls back slightly, just enough to remind me who’s boss.

The side of my face is flat against the table where we’d just had our meeting. "Armen," I whine.

"What?” he grunts, pulling all the way out and then driving his cock back in.

"I need⁠—"

"I know what you need."

"Then—"

"When I say."

God. Damn. Him.

I try to push back against him to change the pace and his hand comes down firm on my neck, holding me where he wants me.

"Good girl," he says quietly, which should not work as well as it does.