Page 62 of Take Her

I knew how to make myself come.

The only difference was that he was finally here.

With me.

“Tell me what you’re doing, little girl.”

I pouted but did not open my eyes up. “What I was told to do, sir,” I said spitefully, and absolutely without detail. I both heard and felt him laugh.

“I’ll let you get away with that technicality, for now.”

I felt a blush rise to my cheeks, unbidden, and sighed. It wasn’t worth trying to escape him, he still had his arm wrapped around me—in fact now he was pulling my skirt even higher, with the fingers of that hand—while the other kept my face tilted in his direction.

“Both hands,” he commanded, and I sank my other one down.

It was like there was a ten-car pileup happening inside of me. I knew what normal looked like—while I wasn’t normal, I had the 20/20 perception of someone on the outside of it, who studied it like it owed me money, so I was sure this wasn’t it. And I knew if I did this with him like he wanted, that it would prey on me to a degree he had no idea about. I hadn’t gone to all those therapists for nothing. I knew how to protect myself, and this was the opposite of that. If I came in his lap for him, it would open so many doors inside of me, ones I knew I might never get closed again, and I didn’t want to become a wild sobbing mess. I was certain Rhaim wanted his little girl to have some sense of decorum—the current situation between us completely aside.

But I was also irrepressibly horny because I had fucking trained myself to be for more nights than I cared to remember, and if he was here, with me—even if he wasn’t inside of me—all of my body said it was good enough.

I pushed my middle fingers from one hand into myself, where I was already sluiced with juices, evidence of my body’s betrayal—and ran the other over my clit in soft circles, as I felt things start to build.

And even though I could smell him, the scent of manliness that followed him everywhere, like well-oiled leather and whiskey, and even though I could feel his arm around me and the heat radiating out from our contact, I might’ve been able to pretend he wasn’t there and that this was just another normal night for me—except for the fact that I could feel the blood pumping into his erection as it stiffened beside my hip, and fuck, that turned me on.

Maybe someday he’d finally fucking use it on me. God, I could not wait. I knew it was huge, it might tear me in two, and the sick part of me that was grinding against my hand on his lap was entirely okay with that happening—as long as this time it was him doing it.

My breathing sped up, and I gave a soft moan, arching forward, making him cinch his arm around me tighter like he wanted to come too—and while at home I could risk using his name, I knew I couldn’t here.

“Sir,” I whispered quietly. And then a blizzard of fears assaulted me—that he would stop me to be cruel, or that he disliked what he was seeing, or that this was the only time this would ever happen—until I heard him speak.

“Come for me, little girl,” he said, in a low, low voice, just like I’d always imagined, and so I did, hard, crying out, rocking against my hand in his lap, while he made appreciative noises, and everything in me hoped he’d just let me turn towards him afterward, unzip his slacks, and sheath himself inside.

I kept my eyes closed till I’d caught my breath, rocking my head back against his upper arm, staring first up at his ceiling, before I lifted it and my gaze met his. I felt raw and exposed, like I’d just tightroped over razor-wire.

But he was as self-contained as ever—and then the corners of his lips lifted up, as did one of his eyebrows. “That one didn’t count.”

I blinked in post-orgasm confusion. “What do you mean it didn’t count?”

“Your eyes were closed,” he said simply.

“But you—you didn’t tell me?—”

“Because it didn’t matter, because I knew you were going to give me a second one.”

I sagged in frustration. “Rhaim,” I protested, as his smile turned sharp.

“I want to watch my little girl staring up adoringly at me as she comes. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you?”

He was looking at me now with his frightening intensity and I realized back when I’d worshipped him from far away, I’d never considered how terrifying it could be to meet your god up close.

“It’s not that. Well, it is a little, but—” I pulled up one hand, to show him the fluid dripping from my fingers. “If I come again, and without underwear, as requested, I’ll leave a massive wet spot on my skirt. I won’t get to leave for hours.”

“Ahh,” he allowed. “The temptation is to say you can stay in here, then, say, under my desk, but I do have evening plans.”

The words “with who” and “doing what” rose up my throat just as fast as a lightning ball of panic dropped back down, plunking into my stomach and making it churn.

But I knew, as of yet, that was none of my business, and a thin veneer of sanity was still paramount—until I saw him reach into his suit and bring out a small square of fabric he kept inside.

He noticed me watching him. “Lest you think this is an affectation—there’s plenty of times I want to touch things without leaving fingerprints, but gloves in the summer are a bit much,” and then he brought it to where my thighs met, where they were tightly closed. “Open up.”

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