Page 65 of Torched Spades
She shakes her head.
“I trap them in a glass jar. I watch them flap their wings in frantic circles before realizing there’s no way out.” Every step I take is mirrored with a stumble until her ass hits the desk. “Then do you know what I do?”
“You let them go?”
The hopeful catch in her voice draws a sadistic smile to my face. “I open the lid and let them taste a moment of freedom before ripping their wings off.”
“Why?”
“So they can never fly away again.”
“That’s sick,” she whispers. “You’resick.”
My smile widens as her cheeks flush. “That may be true, but my morality isn’t the one in question here.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
My hands are rough as I tip her over her desk. I should walk away right now, but I won’t. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, but she lit the match, so I’m going to leave it to burn. “You can flash those fancy degrees in my face and condemn me all you want, Becca. Neither will change what the thought of being under my control has done to that sweet pussy.”
She wants to deny it, but she can’t. I can still smell the slick scent of her arousal through the fabric of that modest business suit. Becca likes to pretend she enjoys sitting atop that purity pedestal when in reality, her soul longs to dwell in the sinners’ swamp with the rest of us.
“You’re my wingless butterfly,” I growl. “Do you know why?” Although she’s glaring at me, those full lips are slightly parted as she grips the desk in desperate fury. “Because underneath that proper exterior, you crave chaos and depravity just as much as I do.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Then prove it. Fly away, butterfly.”
She opens her mouth, but as her blue eyes darken, whatever protest she intended to hurl at me dies on her tongue. Instead, she answers with a kiss so potent it's like pouring water and oil on a fire at the same time…
And what’s left of my composure snaps.
Buttons fly as I tear open her blouse. With a rough jerk, I pull her bra under her breasts and lower my mouth onto one stiff nipple.
“Johnny…” she hisses, arching her back. I don’t need words to know she hates her body for betraying her, but not enough to push me away.
We battle for control. My tongue slides into her mouth, and she pushes back. Every movement is met in kind, and it amps up my already raging desire.Fuck, we may just incinerate.In a tangle of limbs and curses, I spin her around, bending her over her desk. I’m not gentle as I jerk her skirt up and give a sharp thrust, rough denim grinding over yet another pair of lace panties.
“God, I hate you,” Becca moans over her shoulder, the fiery protest puckering those fuckable lips.
That’s it.
I’m a man of my word, so with a hard tug, her panties disintegrate in my hands. Hooking my opposite thumb in her mouth, I force her jaw open before shoving her drenched lace inside.
“The feeling’s mutual.” Unzipping my jeans, I free my straining cock and press it against her slick entrance, my voice deep and deliberate. “And Becca…?” She glares up at me, eyes blazing. “I suggest you hold the fuck on.”
For once, she does as she’s told and wraps her fingers around the edge of the desk above her head. With one hand on her lower back and one gripping her hip, I surge forward in a single punishing thrust, her broken cries scraping against my nerves like worn sandpaper. She turns her cheek, and I meet her searing gaze.
Then I fuck her.
Hard.
Her stuffed mouth garbles out meaningless words. Begging me to stop. Begging me toneverstop. Pleading with me to slow down. Demanding I fuck her harder. I should terrify her. Hell, maybe I do. But right now, her body doesn't care about her fear. All it wants is more, evidenced by the way it meets my hips thrust for thrust.
This woman is going to be the death of me.
I throw my head back and grit my teeth, senseless thoughts controlling my mind. I want my cum to brand her. I want her scent to brand me. I want her voice hoarse and my ears ringing from the screams of my name.
I want absolution and acceptance.
