Page 24 of Blurred Lines

“You wanted me to talk filth and fuck you into submission.”

“Yes.”

We passed a desk, and he paused. “Sheryl, cancel everything for the rest of the day.”

“Uh, okay.”

Poor Sheryl.

My glasses were beginning to clear now, and when Cristian strode into an office and kicked the door shut behind us, I realised he’d brought me to his inner sanctum. His desk sat to one side of the room in front of a wall of windows that overlooked the Fitness Zone downstairs. This was where he’d spied on me from behind the mirrored glass. Where he’d watched me sweating my ass off for weeks.

The polished surface of the desk was already clear of clutter, and through a door beyond, I glimpsed a private bathroom. Did he have a sturdy shower stall? I couldn’t imagine him installing a flimsy plastic model.

He set me onto shaking legs and circled me, sizing me up like a zoo exhibit. I’d never felt this way before, so nervous with anticipation that I forgot to breathe. If anyone but Cristian had studied me with such intensity, I might have withered, but his gaze was so full of molten lust that I stood tall. He wanted me. This beautiful asshole wanted me, and I wanted him right back. When he’d completed his examination, he pulled out my ponytail holder and fisted a hand in my hair.

“You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m…” My voice came out hoarse, and I tried again. “I’m yours.”

“Good girl.”

Then his lips were on mine, and all the fire in his gaze poured into that kiss. Flames flared in my belly, and I pressed against him, his back muscles rippling under my palms as I let my hands explore. Why had I ever thought Theo was good enough? There’d been no passion. No heat. Cristian kissed like the devil himself—full of desire and energy, a forbidden temptation I couldn’t resist.

He lifted me onto his desk and began to peel off my clothes—my shirt, my bra, my shorts—trailing his fingers over my flushed skin as he did so. When it came to my panties, he shimmied them down an inch, hesitated for a moment, then found a pair of scissors in his desk drawer and snip, snip, snipped, leaving me naked before him.

“Hey! Now I can’t wear those anymore.”

“Exactly.”

Perhaps I should have felt self-conscious about all my pooches and stretch marks and bumps—wasn’t that how society conditioned us to act?—but under the harsh glare of Cristian’s office lights with my legion of imperfections on display, I felt nothing but sexy. He made me feel that way, his breathing rough as he drank me in, his lazy gaze pausing on my breasts and again on the triangle of hair between my thighs. Maybe I should have taken a page out of fictional Lauren’s book and gotten a Brazilian?

“How come you’re still wearing shorts?” I asked.

He ignored that. “I can smell your arousal from here, Lauren. Spread your legs.”

That was the moment I discovered there were definite advantages to writing down my fantasies and letting the object of my desires read them. Cristian knew what I wanted without me uttering a word, which was just as well because I could barely speak. I did as I was told, trembling from the sudden coolness as he breathed over me.

“Somebody’s ready,” he murmured.

“So get on with it.”

“Patience is a virtue.”

“I’m more into vice.”

Cristian chuckled as he went to work with his tongue, sliding it between my slick folds, fucking me with it, circling my clit until I forgot my own name because his was the only one that mattered. It didn’t take long.

“Cristian.”

I choked it out as the orgasm tore through me, my back arched and my heels digging into his thighs, the rush more intense than anything I’d ever experienced. Now I knew how a junkie felt. I’d spend the rest of my life chasing this high.

Cristian gathered me into his arms, and I wrapped myself around him, undoubtedly leaving a mess all over his desk but beyond caring. I never wanted to let him go. In a break from his tough-guy persona, he kissed my hair and rubbed my back so, so sweetly.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much better.”

“Forget all the assholes who came before me. They’re irrelevant now.”

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