Page 49 of Blackmail
“I’m going to fuck you, Simon. I’m going to pound you so hard you’ll be wearing marks from my desk phone for a week. Unless you tell me to stop, Simon.”
“No. Don’t. Don’t do it. Please.” When I feel his blunt head at my opening, I tack on an “Oh, God, no, I can’t take it” for good measure, when what I’m really thinking is I might die in the next second if he doesn’t get the hell inside me.
I feel every inch of him when he pushes inside. Every ridge, every vein and nerve ending lights me up as he pumps into me. He’s slow and steady at first, then insistent. Then punishing.
“You feel so fucking good,” he whispers into the darkness. “So fucking smooth, so hot, and so tight. I had no idea, Simon. No idea I could feel like this.”
Another moan escapes me as his dick glances over my prostate. I can hear what he’s saying but I can’t reply. Can’t even give him shit about how many f-bombs he’s dropping. Can’t do anything but feel him.
“You’re so fucking perfect. I swear it feels like you were made for me.”
I hate how much I love the thought of being made for him.
My eyes close against the words, but the emotion sinks in anyway. I focus on the rhythmic pounding against my ass. The punishing way his hands grip my hips. The hard edge of the desk, which will definitely leave a bruise later.
“I hooked up with guys,” he murmurs. “Plenty of guys, before I got married. It was fine. It was a needed release, but when my career picked up, it wasn’t a tragedy to beat the shit out of my punching bag instead.”
I’m not sure what he’s saying.
“Then I met you.”
Oh… Oh.
“You drive me so crazy, Simon. I can’t keep my hands off you. I don’t want to. I want to mark every inch of your skin. I want to taste you everywhere. I want to hurt you and please you over and over again until you can’t move. Until you can’t remember anyone’s name but mine. Until nobody else’s dick can satisfy you.”
Holy shit.
One of his hands snakes in front of me, clasping around my throat. His grasp isn’t too tight. I can breathe. The sensation of him touching me in such a vulnerable place has me on the verge of losing control.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.
“No,” I say, like before.
“Tell me to stop.” Louder now. More of a command.
My second “No” is louder too. I press my hands into the desk like I’m trying to push myself up, but not hard enough to make it happen.
“No,” I repeat. “I said no, dammit. Where the hell do you get off, thinking you can touch me like this?”
His hand tightens. “I get off in your ass, Simon, because you love me touching you like this. You love me using you. Don’t you?”
“I have three or four guys a week touching me like this.”
Lies and more lies. Nobody touches me like this. I don’t know why I’m allowing it with him.
Yes, you do.
My denial is drowned out by the absolutely feral sound I make when my orgasm rips out of me, followed moments later by Sebastian’s guttural roar and the stuttering of his hips as he paints my insides.
He collapses on top of me, and for a moment there’s nothing but the two of us breathing in the eerie silence. I hate how satisfying his body feels draped over mine.
“Why can’t I get enough of you?” The words murmured against my ear hit me harder than his belt did.
“I guess…” I guess I just have that effect on people is what I start to say. But I’m sated and deliciously achy pinned under this beast of a man, and I can’t make the words form.
Because there’s no comparing this thing between us to anything else.
Right at this moment, there’s no escaping the tenderness in my chest. When he tugs me away from his desk to a nearby love seat, rubs some sort of lotion on my burning skin, and then pulls me against him to fall asleep, I’m too spent to be rocked by how right it all feels.
