Page 35 of Dirty As Puck
My hands find her waist, gripping tight as I pull her into me, and her gasp breaks open into a low, needy sound that only fuels the fire tearing through me. Her hands are already in my hair, tugging, anchoring herself to me as our mouths crash together. There’s no finesse to it, just pure hunger, teeth grazing, our tongues colliding, a frantic clash that goes against everything we’ve been trying to avoid.
The table behind her rattles as I walk her back into it. Papers scatter like useless witnesses, sliding to the floor as I press her down onto the cold surface. Her blazer catches on the edge, and I shove it off her shoulders, my fingers already sliding along the warm skin beneath. She arches into my touch, a sharp breath escaping her, and it’s the sound that undoes me and I lose the last ounce of control I have.
I tear at the buttons of her blouse, one popping, two skittering away across the table, until the fabric hangs open. My mouth follows the line of her throat, nipping, tasting, the salt of her skin, mixing with the faint citrus scent she always carries. She squirms under me, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she’sshifting, chasing the contact as if she needs more. I know she needs more.
“God, Rochelle…” I mutter against her collarbone, and she fists the front of my shirt in response, pulling me back to her mouth like she’s starving too. Her nails scrape down my sides, dragging the shirt up, and I help her, yanking it over my head and tossing it somewhere behind me.
The air hits my skin, chilled, but her hands are warm, roaming over my chest like she’s trying to memorize every line.
Her skirt rides up as I step between her legs, the friction of her thighs against my jeans a maddening tease. I grip her hips, thumbs pressing into the curve just above her stockings, and she lets out a strangled whimper when I push her harder against the table.
Her blazer’s gone, her blouse half-open, her bra dark with the outline of her nipples beneath the lace. I trace each one with my thumb, and her back arches so sharply the table legs scrape.
“You’ve been driving me insane,” I growl, and I don’t wait for a reply. My mouth closes over the lace, teeth catching, tongue dragging over the peak until it’s damp through the fabric. Her breath stutters, a broken moan spilling out as she clutches the back of my neck.
Her fingers find my belt, fumbling, tugging, desperate now, and I help her, one tug, two, the leather slipping free. I push her skirt higher, fingers trailing along the inside of her thigh, feeling the heat of her through the thin barrier of her lace panties. She shudders when I trace her there, a slick, undeniable proof of just how far gone she already is. She’s so wet, it instantly makes my dick bulge.
“Kai…” It’s a whisper, a plea, maybe a warning. I don’t care.
I hook my fingers in the lace and tear it aside, just enough. Her thighs fall open around me, and I press forward, grinding against her until she gasps my name like it’s something sacred.
The table creaks under us, the room silent except for our breathing, our mouths, the rustle of clothes being shoved and pushed and stripped away.
Her hands find my shoulders again, nails digging in as I finally slide inside her, no teasing now, just a hard, desperate thrust that has her head falling back against the table. The sound she makes is guttural, broken, and it nearly undoes me right there.
I move with her, against her, the edge of the table biting into my thighs as her legs lock around me, pulling me deeper, closer. Her fingers are in my hair again, tugging, her lips finding mine between ragged breaths. Every movement is frantic, urgent, the kind of raw need that burns through thought and leaves only instinct behind.
“Harder,” she breathes against my ear, and I listen. I grip her hips, pulling her into every thrust until the table shudders under the force. Papers flutter to the floor, a pen rolls off the edge, and still we move, caught in that perfect, reckless rhythm.
Her pussy tightens around my dick, her breath catching, and I feel her go just before she does, clenching, trembling, a soft cry breaking free as she comes undone beneath me. I follow her, one more thrust, two, the world narrowing to the heat and the pressure and the sound of her falling apart in my hands.
Silence rushes in after, broken only by the sound of our breathing as it comes out harsh and uneven, the kind that doesn’t belong in a conference room, but here we are. I pull back slowly, both of us slick and trembling, and rest my forehead against hers for a moment. Just a moment.
Then reality slams back like a cup of ice water on hot coal.
She straightens first, pulling her blouse closed, fingers fumbling over the missing buttons. I reach for my shirt, not looking at her. Neither of us says anything for a long stretch of seconds, the weight of what we’ve just done pressing heavier than the table between us.
“This doesn’t change anything about my story,” she says finally, her voice steadier than I expected.
I let out a short, humorless laugh as I button my jeans. “Wouldn’t expect it to. You got what you wanted.”
She freezes at that, her eyes cutting to mine, sharp, piercing and defensive. “Don’t flatter yourself. This was just stress relief.”
But we both know she’s lying. Hell, I’m lying too. The story’s not just hers anymore. The dynamic between us has shifted, permanently. There’s no pretending this was a mistake we can walk back from.
There’s no going back.
11
The morning sunlight peeks in through the sheer curtains, a thin golden line that lands right across my laptop screen. The cursor blinks on the empty document like it’s mocking me, daring me to put something, anything down. Marcus wants insight, drama, an angle no one else can get. Yet all I can think about is the feel of his hands on my skin.
I press my palms against my temples, as if that can push the memory back where it belongs. But it doesn’t work. Every inch of me still remembers every feel of him.
The rough drag of his fingers tracing the line of my waist. The heat of his mouth when he kissed me like he’d been starving for so long. The way my body had answered him, instantly, shamelessly, without any control.
I should feel triumphant, because I got close to the getting his story. Too close. Instead, my chest feels tight, my heartbeat a little too fast for someone sitting still.
The laptop stays open, but the words won’t come. My fingers hover over the keys, then curl into fists. I shouldn’t have let it happen. I shouldn’t have wanted it in the first place. I’m here to report, to peel back the layers of a man the media swears they already know. I’m not here to become one of his layers.
