Chapter 16
Gen
Ican’t I can’t I can’t.
I can’t stand there a minute longer and watch Anton Wolff’s monstrous dick pump in and out of another woman while he holds the most intense eye contact with me.
I can’t take the need on his face, the intensity, as he gets closer and closer.
His thrusts don’t falter. They’re flawless.
Smooth and rhythmic and unwavering. But I can see in his expression, in the dark eyes that are usually calculating and are growing more wild, that he’s close to losing control, and that’s the thing I really cannot handle.
Because it’s too cruel.
I want to be the one that makes him feel that way. The one he unleashes all that glorious pent-up frustration on. And I hate that he’s making me feel this way.
I mean, what the actual fuck? He’s got me standing here, a lonely observer, as he does whatever the fuck he wants to her.
I’ve gone from wondering what it would be like to have Anton Wolff let loose to seeing it with my own eyes, in such vivid detail I can never un-see it.
And I’ll be damned if I’m going to stay and watch him finish the job.
He knew exactly what this would do to me, and I’m a total fucking idiot for allowing him to reel me in, to hold me captive while he has the time of his life.
I don’t fucking think so.
I do the only thing I have any power to do under the circumstances, which is also the thing I know will piss him off more than anything else.
I shoot him my best look of utter contempt, and I turn on my heel and walk away.
I need release.
Badly.
My first instinct is to lock myself in an empty room with a vibrator and get myself off as quickly and vigorously as possible, but that’s plain depressing. Right now, I require the brutal comfort of a hard fuck.
I need a man’s dick inside me, and I need him to be as desperate for it as Anton was.
I don’t wonder for a second if all that raging desire on his part came from a desire to fuck that woman into oblivion—he made it pretty clear at the end that I played a major part in it—but whatever twisted commutation the two of us were performing in his mind, it did the trick.
The guy was an angry bull, and I need precisely that.
I push through the crowd, through the throng of people dancing and naked bodies, to the bar.
‘Vodka. Neat,’ I tell Doug, the barman, holding out my hand.
He grins and stamps it to show I’ve had my second drink before pushing a shot glass in my direction.
I knock the clear liquid back to take the edge off any remaining inhibitions.
Arousal is muddying my thoughts right now, but I still struggle to let loose, and I certainly don’t share Rafe and Cal’s total lack of qualms about fucking in this public space.
While I’m highly selective when it comes to the men I’m with, my tastes have changed somewhat since opening Alchemy. I’m no longer drawn to looks alone. Rather, it’s a guy’s vibe that draws me in.
Take Anton, for example. He’s classically good-looking.
Gorgeous, even. But that’s not what makes me wish his head was between my legs in the darkest hours of the night.
It’s his demeanour. His attitude of power.
Control. It’s that dratted Big Dick Energy again.
I swear to God, BDE will get me on my knees far faster than any amount of model good looks.
I’m far more interested when a guy radiates the kind of confident competence that lets you know you’re guaranteed a good time.
Speaking of which.
I cast my gaze around the people nearest to me and clock a guy at the other end of the bar. He’s around my own age—mid-thirties. I’ve seen him in here before, but we haven’t interacted since his interview, and I can’t actually remember his name.
Right now, that’s probably a good thing.
He’s Mediterranean-or-further-east-looking, his hair slicked back into what’s either a man bun or short ponytail—I can’t see—and there’s something in his arrogant expression and cruel mouth that tells me he’ll give it to me good.
Our eyes lock. I put down my empty shot glass and lean an elbow on the bar, letting my body curve as my hip juts out. Sure enough, his eyes travel from my face to my tits, all the way down and back up again. I raise my eyebrows in silent challenge, and he takes it, coming towards me.
He’s tall and rangy and wearing all black, his shirt open enough to reveal olive skin and just the right amount of chest hair. His beard is black and perfectly trimmed. I’d be absolutely amazed if he wasn’t in finance. I can tell a hedge fund guy a mile off.
He keeps on coming until we’re almost toe to toe, then bends his mouth to my ear. ‘What do you need?’ he asks in a broken accent. Lebanese, maybe? Turkish? I seem to be on a roll with Turks. ‘Can I taste you?’
I shake my head against his face. ‘No.’ There’s no time for that. ‘I need to be fucked. Hard. Think you can do that?’
He pulls up and grins at me. He’s definitely hot, and he looks dirty as fuck. He’s not Anton Wolff, but two out of three ain’t bad. ‘Come with me, beautiful,’ he says, and puts his hand out.
Okay, so his chat’s not great, but frankly, his mouth’s not the body part I’m interested in.
There’s a section on this side of the room that’s even darker than the rest of the space.
Heavier drapes provide a screen. It’s not totally private, but it’s far less in your face.
When he leads me in, there are what looks like three bodies entangled in the far corner, but I’m way past giving a shit.
All I can think about is being filled up like Anton filled that woman up.
‘So you want it rough,’ he says. It’s not a question. The smile has gone, and a frisson of nervous excitement shudders through me.
‘Yes.’
‘Dress off.’
I turn and present him with my back. He makes quick work of the zip, sliding it all the way open so he can push the dress down over my hips.
‘Fuck me,’ he says, his voice strangled, and I can tell my lingerie has hit home. Black lace bra. Matching suspender belt that rises to my waist and gives me definition. No knickers.
Easy access.
‘On the sofa,’ he says. ‘Hands and knees.’ He prods me in the back, and I sashay over to the nearest huge sofa, positioning myself lengthways on it like he asked. I wiggle my bare arse as he gets on behind me, kicking my legs further apart with his knee.
‘Condom,’ I say.
‘Sure, baby.’ I can’t hear much above the music in here, but the shuffling behind me tells me he’s getting his dick out and wrapping it up.
He runs his knuckles right between my cheeks.
Grazing over my wetness from back to front.
Assessing. A couple of fingers ram inside me, hard, and the intrusion reminds me of Anton finger-fucking that woman in front of me.
I close my eyes.
In my mind, Anton’s entering the alcove and spotting us. He shoves this guy out of the way and takes over, his long fingers probing, scissoring inside me. Demanding everything from me and sparing me nothing.
God, that’s good. This is what I need. I need someone who knows what they’re doing to take all this useless fucking turmoil I’m in and channel it. Harness it. Mould it into something beautiful, something I can use to turn myself inside out in exactly the way I need.
The guy’s fingers continue to stretch me as his thumb finds my clit. He rubs it hard, and I moan. Anton would kill for this, I know he would, and the thought sends desire coursing, hot and heavy, through my veins.
For all the misery and humiliation he put me through just now, I have something he wants and can’t have, and that is a glorious kernel of knowledge.
Yeah, he got his rocks off, but I was the one who turned him down.
He wants to touch me, and instead some random is fingering me and playing with my swollen clit and getting ready to fuck me.
He leans over me and mutters something. I hear the word wet and I nod. Come on, mister. Knock yourself out. It’s pretty obvious I’m ready.
Then the blunt latex-covered tip of his dick is lining up at my entrance. He massages my arse cheek and then slaps it before smoothing his hand over it again. I wriggle with pleasure against him, and he pushes in.
Oof.
He’s big.
That’s a bonus.
He shoves all the way in, hard, and the intrusion knocks the breath out of my lungs. Oh my God that’s good.
I exhaust myself on a daily basis with endless rumination and second-guessing and over-thinking. And I have solutions. Wine. Epsom salt baths. Nineties thrillers. But there’s nothing that can quiet my mind like being rammed full of the rigid length of a man’s cock.
It’s the most sublime sensation I can ever conceive of. It obliterates all thought, all insecurity, all inhibition. It’s my favourite kind of takeover.
I dig my hands into the pleather of the sofa, which doesn’t offer me much purchase, and brace myself as hard as I can against his thrusts. He’s not holding back. I wanted rough, I’m getting rough.
He reaches one hand underneath and squeezes my breast through the lace of my bra, his fingers rubbing harshly at my nipple.
The friction is perfect, and I tell him so by arching my back and pushing against him on his next thrust. I’m not interested in drawing this out; I want this quick and dirty for both of us.
In and out he drives. In and out. He’s big and he’s good and he’s kind of savage, which is truly excellent.
This isn’t how it would be with Anton, though.
I mean, it would undoubtedly get like this at the end, but he’d start slow.
Totally in control. He’d punish me for making him wait.
I know he would, sadistic fucker that he is.
But I also know that finally getting inside my body would be too much for him.
That even the Anton Wolff is only human.
I saw that on his face a few minutes ago. He may not have been inside me, but the ravaged look on his face was that of a man about to go under. About to be subsumed by his needs.
The thought of it has me burning up. As this guy pumps me, dragging his sizeable dick up and down against the nerve endings of my internal walls, the fantasy of Anton struggling to contain himself, to fight this, to quash the demons of lust that I know consume him as much as they consume me, engulfs me.
It’s not my temporary fuck-buddy’s ragged breaths and grunts I hear behind me, but Anton’s. And as the heat ignites into flame across my body and a stranger hits the part of me that detonates my entire nervous system into beautiful nothingness, it’s Anton’s anguished face I see behind my eyelids.