Chapter 19
You’re Doing So Well
ALISTAIR
I take my time.
The toy is warm in my hand—body temperature already, by design—and substantial. More than she is used to. I can see it in her face when she looks at it—the wanting and the wariness in equal measure, which is an expression I find extraordinarily compelling.
“Alistair—”
“Trust me,” I say.
I press it against her entrance—not inside, not yet, just the warmth and the weight of it, and I activate the vibration low against her clit and watch her breath leave her body in a long unsteady exhale.
“Oh—”
I keep it there. Circling. Watching her face.
She is already so wet that the toy slides fractionally forward without me pushing it and she gasps—her hands flying to the desk edge, gripping hard.
“Wait—”
“Breathe.”
She breathes. I hold the toy absolutely still and let the vibration do its work and watch the wariness begin to shift in her face, the wanting taking over by degrees. Her hips make a small involuntary movement. Toward it rather than away.
There.
I press it the smallest amount further.
“Oh god—” Her thighs tremble. “It's—Alistair, it's so—”
“I know,” I say. “You're doing so well.”
“It's too big.”
“And you’re so wet,” I say. “Stay with me.”
She stays with me.
I work it with extraordinary patience—a fraction at a time, the vibration steady on her clit, watching every flicker of her face for the line between too much and exactly enough.
She is gripping the desk so hard her knuckles are white.
Her breathing is ragged. Every time I give her a little more she makes a sound and tightens and I stop and hold and wait and feel her adjust, feel her body open to it incrementally, her resistance dissolving into something hungry and urgent until all of a sudden she opens up for me.
My own pleasure at this makes me groan. I’m rock hard—so hard it hurts.
“Please,” she breathes. “More—please—”
I give her more.
“Oh—oh fuck—Alistair—”
“Still here,” I say.
“More,” she says. “I want—I need—”
“Tell me,” I say.
“All of it,” she says, and her voice has abandoned every pretense. “I want all of it. Don't you dare stop.”
I give her all of it.
She cries out, loud, completely unguarded, the sound filling the office, and I work it steadily, the vibration unrelenting on her clit, watching her face come magnificently apart.
She moans as the climax seizes her body, and her back arches off the desk.
Her thighs clamp around my hand. Her whole body shudders through the orgasm in long rolling waves and I draw it out until she is gasping and gripping my forearm with both hands.
When the last of it moves through her she sags forward, spent, her forehead dropping.
I set the toy aside, straighten, and look at her, flushed and undone, barely holding herself up on the desk, my jacket somewhere on the floor, the city glittering below us, and I feel something light up in my chest.
My turn.
“Up,” I say.
Ivy looks at me. Her eyes are glazed. “What?”
“I'm not done with you,” I say.
Something moves across her face, not quite alarm, not quite desire.
“Alistair,” she whispers. “I don't know if I can.”
“I know you can,” I say. “You're a good girl. You can take it.”
I set her down from the desk, her legs unsteady beneath her, which I note with considerable private satisfaction, and turn her toward the window. Her palms go flat against the glass instinctively, the cold of it sharp against her skin, and she inhales.
I press against her from behind.
The heat of her after the cold glass makes me throb. She is slick and swollen and still trembling faintly and when I push inside her—slowly, giving her time—and the sound she makes goes straight through me.
I hold still for a moment.
Just this. Her. The city below. Her skin warm under my hands.
Then I begin to move.
One hand slides up her ribcage to her breast—filling my palm with it, squeezing, feeling her gasp and push back against me—and the other finds her jaw, tilting her head back, my fingers pressing into her mouth, and she takes them without hesitation, her tongue warm and her lips closing around them, and the sensation of it combined with the tight heat of her around my cock is something I am going to be thinking about for a very long time.
I set a rhythm. Deep, measured strokes, the full length of me, and I watch her—her reflection in the dark glass, the steam of her breath, the outline of my hand at her breast—and I feel her adjusting to me, opening further, the tension in her shoulders releasing as her body accepts what I'm giving her.
Her skin is warm and flushed under my palm. The sounds she makes around my fingers are muffled and desperate. The slick heat of her grips me with every stroke and I tighten my hand at her breast and drive deeper and feel her shudder.
I increase the pace.
Her palms drag down the glass slightly. Her reflection shows me her face—eyes closed, lips around my fingers, entirely surrendered—and I drive harder and wait for her to ask me to stop because surely she will, surely this is the edge of what she can take.
Her hand disappears between her thighs.
I feel her fingers working against her clit—feel it in the way she clenches suddenly around me, tighter and more urgent—and I understand that she is not going to ask me to stop.
“Harder,” she says, around my fingers. Muffled, fierce, entirely certain.
I give her harder.
The pace becomes something relentless—the glass fogging around the outline of her hands, the sounds of us filling the office, her fingers working herself while I drive into her from behind—and I feel her next orgasm building, feel it in the desperate clenching of her around me, and I squeeze her breast harder and press my fingers deeper into her mouth.
“Fuck-fuck-fu-u-uck!” she cries past them.
The clench of her around me makes me come hard.
It pulls my own release from me like something structural giving way—a full body obliteration moving from the base of my spine outward in long devastating waves, my hips driving forward through it, her name in my throat.
When it’s over I press my forehead to the back of her neck.
We breathe.
I hand her my jacket.
She puts it on—it swamps her completely, the shoulders dropping, the hem at mid-thigh—and I turn her toward the window and stand behind her and we look out at London together.
The rain has stopped. The city glitters—the Thames dark in the middle distance, Canary Wharf's towers reflected in it. Down there, somewhere, is the pavement where she bled and I caught her.
I wrap my arms around her.
“I'm going to keep you safe,” I say. Quietly. Certainly. “Whatever it takes. All of you. Always.”
She is quiet for a moment.
Then: “I know,” she says.
Her hand finds mine and holds it, and the city hums below us.