Page 88 of For Real

“It is a spectacular view,” I agreed.

He spluttered, scrambling off the desk, and returned his arse to its usual position. “How long do we have before dinner?”

“Well, if we want to see Jasper before the reception, about an hour.”

“About an hour?” He tapped the side of his chin thoughtfully.

I nodded, anticipation, yearning, and pure, simple lust pooling slickly in my stomach.

“I want you over this desk.” He slid aside to make room and smiled invitingly.

I hesitated because I always did. A different dom would have snapped at me, or forced me, but Toby never did. He never made it easy. He made me choose.

Made me choose submission. The quiet humiliation of doing something simply because he had told me to.

I crossed the room. Step by step, step by step, and bent over the desk, bracing myself on my elbows. Instinctively, I turned towards him seeking, oh, who knew? Reassurance. Approval. Just his eyes upon me.

“Yeah.” His hand drifted gently over my hair. “Just like that.”

He’d barely touched me, barely asked anything of me, but suddenly I was shuddering, my cock aching. I forgot how to care about anything except Toby and whatever he wanted me to give or have taken.

He pushed away from the desk and came round behind me, his fingers trailing the length of my spine through my shirt, and then ghosting across my arse. I dropped my head between my arms and pushed up against his touch.

I heard his breath catch, and then his hands were sliding under me, fumbling with my belt and the buttons of my trousers, tugging them down with my boxers.

God. Oh God.

Half-naked always felt so much more naked than naked. I swallowed a moan, rested my cheek against the desk, letting gold burn softly behind my eyelids.

“Hey.” Toby’s body curled over mine, his breath warm against my ear. “I kinda…brought something with me.”

“What?”

“From the magic box. Just a tick.”

I couldn’t tell whether it was organisation or disorganisation that made him leave me there on the desk, partially undressed and unrestrained by anything but his wishes—but, regardless, it was exquisitely mortifying. I was too hot and too cold and too covered and too exposed all at the same time. And aroused, unbearably aroused.

He was back in moments. Something thudded onto the desk. I opened my eyes and—

“Toby. No, I—Ah.”

His fingers, warm and slippery with lube, parted, and then pressed into me. It was a shock—he rarely took me with quite such confidence—but the relief of that swift, certain touch after the day’s teasing was sublime. I arched off the desk, fucking back against his hand, groaning shamelessly.

As if he hadn’t just put a vibrating butt plug down beside me.

“Fuck yeah.” Toby. All husky and breathless. “Fuck me.”

And I did, driving myself not-so-slowly mad on his fingers, while the meadows and cloisters of Magdalen shimmered pink and bronze beneath the last rays of the setting sun.21

“More?” he asked, curling his fingers deep inside me, making me burn and twist and want.

“Yes. God, yes.”

But he pulled out. Leaving me gasping, empty and bereft. “Okay, good, so here’s the deal.”

“No, please… I need—” He wasn’t holding me down, but somehow—in that agony of loss and longing—I forgot, and struggled frantically, as though he were.

“Shhh.” He leaned over me again, pushing sweaty hair back from my brow. “This is the deal. I let you come now and you wear that for me tonight. Because…because I think it’ll be totally hot. Or you say no, and that’s okay too, but you don’t get to come till I see you next week.”

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