Page 41 of Sinful Beauty

Tristan

She’s the picture of subservience. Her black mane is pulled back into a tight knot at the base of her neck, exposing a graceful neck and a thin pearl necklace that drapes above the dip in her collarbone. The thin material of her dress hugs every curve, ending mid calf above two heeled black leather boots.

“Do you require assistance?”

She’s taunting me. It reminds me of our night together. Beneath her mannered exterior lies defiance. It’s a fucking turn on.

I have half a mind to force her on her knees. To instruct her to take out my cock and suck me off.

But another urge takes precedence.

I push up from the desk chair, and it rolls backwards. Those eyes question, but her breathiness, the movement in her throat as she swallows, the way her lower lip curls beneath her teeth, they all speak to her body’s desire.

“Stand here.” I point to the space between me and the mammoth desk.

“Do you want me to put away the files?”

“You could say that.”

She sees my smirk. There’s no way she doesn’t. She’s cautious as she fills the space, her back to me. She’s fixated on the ajar office door.

Nervous. Enthralled.

My palm flattens over the curve of her hip. She straightens and wisely removes her hand from the stack of files. My fingers gather the fabric.

I breathe in her sweet, floral fragrance and run the tip of my nose along the nape of her neck.

“I like this fabric.” I continue to gather the material, lifting it higher and higher.

“A Zara special.”

My teeth sink into her bare shoulder and she shudders. “You have good taste.”

She does. She never looks like she spends an inordinate sum on her clothes, but she’s always well put together.

“Put your hands on the desk. Flat.”

“What are you going to do?” She asks, but she’s already obeyed me. She looks straight ahead, trusting me.

I smooth my palm up her thigh to the curve of her buttock. The woman has the perfect ass. It’s not too big, but not flat. She’s got the ass some women pay for. She’s got an ass I would very much like to fuck.

Her dress pools on the edge of the desk where I’ve placed the extra fabric. Both my hands smooth over her thighs, to that delectable behind. And there’s one thing I’m not finding. I back up for a better look, searching for any hint of fabric. A thong. Something.

“You’re not wearing any undergarments?”

“The lines show in this dress.”

Her words suck the oxygen from my lungs. My cock lengthens painfully within its confines. I curl my fingers around her, leaning over her until my erection presses against her, and my fingers find her slit.

Jesus. She’s soaked.

“Should we play just the tip again?”

“If you like.”

But no, it’s approaching six. The cleaning crew will come through shortly.

What I want is fast, rough, and I want her to lose control on her boss’s desk so she never enters this room again without thinking of me. And what we did.

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