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Then he slides his hands down, grabbing my hips, fingers digging into my flesh. The orgasm crashes over me like a curling wave. It’s deep, wild, and each thrust into me pushes my clit into the edge of the desk.
He was holding back before.
But not anymore.
He hammers into me, and I moan as he hits something inside me over and over. Each stroke is more intense, more powerful, until the moan turns into a scream and I come, sudden and hard.
“Oh, fuck.”
He trembles, jerking as he comes. My knees give out like soggy noodles as he fills my ass with his hot cum. His arm tightens around me, keeping me from smacking my head on the desk. I lean back against him, his shallow breaths hot against my neck. My belly warms under his protective touch.
When he finally pulls out, he doesn’t offer me words of comfort. I try to straighten up, but I can’t. My entire being is still flushed with the glorious pleasure of the orgasm that shoots aftershocks into every cell of my body.
The zipper of his pants hisses as he tucks his cock away. Then his hands are back on me, pulling my ass cheeks and pussy apart.
He lowers himself, his hot breath shifting down over my wet flesh as he licks my pussy, his lips and tongue hammering against my clit before riding up and down my slit.
Goddamn…
Another orgasm tears through me like lightning.
He waits until I’m finished before turning me around to face him.
“Responsive,” he says with a self-satisfied smirk. “We’re going to have fun.”
Then he lets me go.
“Malone?” I rasp.
“Fuck that, I want you to call me Master or Sir.”
“Not. Happening,” I say, voice thick.
His hand comes down hard and sharp on my ass, making me scream. “Oh yeah, you fucking will. And I’ll enjoy making you do it.”
I try to find an ounce of strength in my body that I can use to pull myself up, but I’m still a pile of goo, and the fucking asshole doesn’t bother to help. He just moves past me and gets himself a drink. Then he points at the screen.
“Can’t wait to strap you to a St. Andrew’s Cross.” Then he finally looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “You need help or something?”
I stare at him. I hate this man for doing this, for making me struggle against the waves of regret hitting me, for making me want him to gather me in his arms and kiss me again and whisper sweetness to me.
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
He’s a criminal, a sleaze, a man who takes what he wants, like he just took me. Not because he really wants me, but because he can.
This was a game and the worst thing is, I liked it. More than I want to admit to myself and something I’d never admit to him. It’s bad enough that I need his help, but I got off on it, which is so much worse.
And the dispassionate look he flashes me… it pisses me off and I want to smack it off his gorgeous face.
I’m coming down from the euphoric high, crumpling to the ground where reality comes flooding back in. “Fuck you. I’m not?—”
“What?” He crosses to me and grabs me by the hair. “Going to take the help you’re already starting to pay for? Up to you. Maybe this is just your way to play in the filth. Get a taste. I don’t really care.”
He’s close, too close, and he sends the moral compass in me haywire.
But the thing is, I do care.
