Sadie #2
His mouth opens as his tongue finds mine, and the taste of him is warm and specific. I make a sound in my throat that I don't plan and his grip tightens and he pulls me down onto his lap.
I straddle him. The chair creaks under our combined weight and his hands are on my thighs now, spreading them wider across his lap, his fingers pressing into the muscle through the thin cotton of my leggings.
I can feel him hardening beneath me, the ridge of him growing firm against the seam of my leggings, and I roll my hips once, deliberately, and watch his eyes darken.
I pull my shirt over my head, revealing that I’m not wearing a bra.
I didn't bother this morning because I knew today was for unpacking boxes, and there's a freedom in this house that I'm still getting used to.
The freedom of a woman who doesn't have to armor herself against the person she lives with.
His eyes drop to my breasts and his jaw tightens. I feel the reaction against me, the pulse of blood, the twitch of his cock straining against his trousers. His hands cover me, palms warm against my nipples, and he squeezes once, watching my face while he does it.
"These," he says, his voice rough. "I think about these in meetings. Dmitri is reviewing quarterly figures and I'm thinking about the way you look right now."
"That's very unprofessional."
"I'm a criminal, Sadie. Professionalism is not my primary concern."
I laugh. The laugh turns into a gasp when he leans forward and takes my nipple into his mouth, tongue circling the peak, teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt straight to my core.
My hands grip his hair and I arch into him, pressing more of myself against his mouth, and he takes it, greedy, sucking hard enough that I feel the pull in my pelvis.
His hand slides down my stomach and into my leggings without finesse, without teasing. His fingers push past the waistband of my underwear and find me wet, slick, ready in the way I'm always ready when his mouth is on me and his hands are rough.
"Already," he murmurs against my breast. His fingers slide through me, parting, stroking. "You're already soaked."
His finger finds my clit and circles it with the precision of a man who has mapped this territory extensively.
I reach between us and work his belt open. The buckle clinks. I undo the button, the zipper, and free him, wrapping my hand around the hot, hard length of him. He groans a little when I stroke, my thumb tracing the head, spreading the bead of moisture I find there.
"I want you," I say. "Right here. In this chair. In this office where you do all your scary Bratva things."
"Scary Bratva things." His fingers thrust inside me, two of them, curling, and my hand stutters on his cock. "Is that the technical term?"
A low, closed mouth hum in agreement comes from my throat, then I manage to say, “Fuck me, Nick."
Something flares in his eyes. He withdraws his hand from my leggings and grips the waistband with both hands and pulls.
The leggings tear at the seam. I don’t care.
I lift my hips enough for him to drag the fabric and my underwear down my thighs.
I kick one leg free, enough, and sink back onto his lap.
His cock is between us, pressed flat against my mound, and I rise up on my knees reaching down to position him. The head of him nudges against my entrance, hot and blunt. I hold his gaze. Grey eyes, blown dark, stripped of every pretense of control.
I sink down onto him.
The stretch is slow, perfect, the full-body exhale of a fit that I'll never get used to and never want to. He fills me slowly and I take all of it, my thighs burning, my hands braced on his shoulders, until I'm seated flush against him and we're both breathing hard and neither of us is moving.
"Look at me," he says.
I look. His face is inches from mine. His hands are on my hips, fingers digging in, holding me still while he adjusts to the feel of me around him.
"This," he says. "This is what I fight for. Every folder on that desk, every call, every decision I make in this room. It's for this. For you."
I start to move, a slow roll of my hips that makes his head tip back against the chair. Then faster, finding the rhythm, the angle that drags him against the spot inside me that makes my vision swim. His hands guide me, lifting and pulling, setting a pace that's just on the edge of too much.
The chair creaks with every thrust and I lean back against the edge of his desk. A pen rolls off the edge and hits the floor and neither of us gives it a thought because his mouth is on my chest as he feasts on my tits and nipples.
"Harder," I breathe. "Nick, harder."
He straightens, my nipples pebbling as the cold air touches wet skin, and grips my hips harder driving up into me.
The force lifts me off his lap on every stroke, gravity bringing me back down onto him with a slap of skin that echoes off the walnut shelves.
His thumb finds my clit and presses and circles.
The dual sensation, him inside me and his thumb on me, builds the pressure so fast that I'm already close, already climbing, already clenching around him in pulses that make him groan.
"That's it," he says, his voice wrecked. His eyes flit from my bouncing tits to the space between us where his cock slides in and out of me. "I can’t wait for you to come on my cock, Sadie. Right here in this chair. You’re going to milk my balls dry of every drop with your hungry pussy."
I begin to tremble as the coil tightens, tightens. I bring one hand from his shoulder and roll my nipple between my thumb and index finger as I squeeze firmly on the soft flesh.
“Look at how perfect you are,” he says before swiping his tongue over my other nipple. “Look at how well you take my cock. Look, Sadie—”
I look down and see exactly what he means. His ridged cock, rock solid and so thick I can see how stretched I am, my labia framing it with every thrust. I do take it well. I take it like I’m the only person in the world who can.
The orgasm tears through me. My head drops back as I cry out, my body seizing around him with tight rhythmic contractions that I feel in my spine and my toes and the backs of my knees.
He rides me through it, one hand still on my hip, the other pressing his thumb against my sensitive nub.
His hips are still moving, drawing it out until I'm shaking and twitching and gasping his name.
Three more thrusts, deep and hard, and he follows me. Burying himself to the hilt and holding there as his cock pulses inside me, the heat of his release filling me in waves. His eyes never leave my pussy and the sound he makes is low and broken and private, something meant for me.
We sit in the chair. Connected. Breathing.
His arms around me, his face in my neck, the desk lamp still throwing its warm circle across the work that will still be there when we're done. His cock stays firm inside me. There’s a slow trickle of him leaking from where we're joined, warm and sticky, and I don't move.
I don't want to move. I want to stay in this chair in this office with this man inside me and the door closed and the world on the other side of it doing whatever the world does while Nikolai Zhirinovsky holds his future wife in his lap.
I close my eyes and breathe him in and let the sadness and the joy exist in the same space. Because that's what life is, both things at once, and I'm done pretending otherwise.