Chapter 22
(Aria POV)
The next day at work, I barely had time to sneak a coffee before my phone buzzed with a summons. Marcus. Office. Now.
My stomach flipped.
When I stepped inside, he was leaning against the desk, a small black box in his hand. His eyes tracked me the whole way across the room.
“What’s that?” I asked, trying for casual.
“A gift.” He held it out, waiting.
I took it slowly, lifted the lid and almost dropped it. Black lace. Silk straps. A delicate scrap of fabric that was clearly not just lingerie.
I looked up at him, heat rushing through me. “Marcus…”
“Panties.” His mouth curved, dark amusement in his eyes. “Special ones.” He lifted a slim silver remote between two fingers, pressing a button so the thing in my hand gave a faint, unmistakable buzz.
My pulse spiked. “You wouldn’t…”
“I would.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper in my ear. “You’ve been teasing me long enough, trouble. Time for me to have a little fun.”
I swallowed hard. “Where… where am I supposed to wear these?”
He grinned. “Board meeting. One hour.”
My knees nearly buckled. “My dad will be there.”
“All the more reason you’ll behave.” His thumb brushed the remote. The lace hummed again. My breath caught.
He slipped the box back into my hands, his tone final. “Go get ready.”
I stared at him, heart pounding. “Marcus…”
He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Don’t be late. And don’t make me turn it up.”
In the staff bathroom, I locked the door and set the little black box on the counter. My reflection stared back at me, wide-eyed, hair still mussed from the morning scramble.
“This is insane,” I whispered to myself.
But my hands were already moving. Slipping out of my sensible work underwear. Sliding the black lace up my legs, settling the silk against me. The moment the thong was in place, I shivered.
The material was so delicate. Almost nothing. And yet I felt more exposed than if I’d walked out naked.
I straightened my skirt, smoothing it down, forcing myself to look at my reflection. From the outside, I looked like Tom Bennett’s daughter, ready for a serious board meeting.
On the inside, I was Marcus’s. Completely.
By the time I walked down the hall, my heart was pounding so loud I swore people could hear it.
The conference room was already filling up. Dad sat near the head of the table, papers spread in neat stacks, his glasses low on his nose. He looked up, smiled warmly. “Aria. Good. Sit.”
I managed a nod and slid into the chair beside Marcus.
Marcus didn’t look at me right away. Just a flick of his eyes, the tiniest curl at the corner of his mouth as if he could feel the heat coming off me.
Then his hand slid casually under the table, resting on his thigh. The remote between his fingers.
Across from us, Dad cleared his throat, launching into quarterly numbers.
And under the table, my whole body braced. The meeting droned on… numbers, projections, distributor contracts. I tried to focus. Tried.
But under the table, Marcus’s remote clicked. A low hum started between my legs. I froze, heart pounding, biting down on the inside of my cheek to keep from gasping.
Across the table, Dad was explaining something about yield per acre, gesturing toward the charts on the screen.
Marcus sat beside me, calm, collected, pen scratching across his notes as if nothing was happening. Only the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
I shifted, the sensation flooding hotter, stronger when he clicked again. My thighs clamped together uselessly. I risked a glance at him. His gaze cut to mine, dark and dangerous.
Be still, his look said.
I swallowed hard, gripping the edge of my chair, pretending to study the spreadsheet in front of me while every nerve in my body screamed.
And then, just as Dad asked me a question about event planning, Marcus turned the vibration to a higher setting.
The numbers blurred on the page. I could feel it coming… too strong, too sharp. And Marcus knew. He always knew. I think I answered with a faint, yes, that is correct to my dad.
Dad nodded and continued talking, the drone of his voice filling the conference room. My nails dug crescent moons into the paper in front of me, my knuckles white around the pen.
Then Marcus pressed the button again. Harder. Steadier. It had to be in full vibration mode.
The orgasm ripped through me silently, a tidal wave crashing inside my body while I sat perfectly still in a boardroom chair. My legs shook under the table; I bit my lip until I tasted blood, struggling to keep my expression neutral while my dad clicked through slides about harvest projections.
Marcus didn’t look at me. Not once. He just kept writing, pen steady, as though he weren’t tearing me apart with a single piece of hidden tech and that damn remote in his palm.
When it finally ebbed, leaving me trembling and wrecked, he clicked the toy off. The silence after the hum felt louder than anything in the room.
I dared to glance his way. His eyes flicked to mine for just a heartbeat, dark and triumphant.
Then he leaned close, his mouth brushing my ear as everyone else gathered their papers. “Good girl,” he murmured, so soft that no one else could hear.
My whole body shivered.
The moment the boardroom emptied, I practically bolted for the door. My legs still felt weak, my cheeks flushed, my body humming like the toy did moments ago.
“Aria.” His voice cut through the shuffle of papers and footsteps. Not loud. Not sharp. Just absolute.
I froze.
Marcus stood by the door to his office, one hand resting on the frame, waiting. Watching me.
I swallowed, forcing myself to walk past the others, to step into his office as casually as I could. The door shut behind me. The lock clicked.
He didn’t waste a second. His hand caught my wrist, spun me against the door, his body pressing me into the wood. His eyes burned into mine, dark and satisfied.
“You think you can sit in my meeting,” he murmured, voice low, dangerous, “and come apart in front of your father without paying for it?”
Heat flooded me all over again. My lips parted, but no sound came out.
Marcus’s hand slid down, under my skirt, finding the thin line of lace and the small, humming toy. He tugged the toy free, holding it up between us. “This is mine,” he said, tucking it into his pocket. “Just like you.”
I shivered. “Marcus…”
“Say it.”
My pulse stuttered. “Yours.”
His mouth crashed down on mine, hungry, claiming. His hands roamed, rough and sure, until I was gasping, clinging, begging all over again.
He pulled back just enough to rasp against my lips: “On your knees.”
The command hit like lightning. My breath caught, my body already moving before my brain caught up.
I sank down in front of him, trembling, looking up at him with wide eyes.
Marcus unbuckled his belt slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving mine. “Open,” he growled, voice hoarse with need, “show me how grateful you really are.”
The floor was cool beneath my knees. My pulse hammered in my ears, every nerve sparking as I looked up at him.
“Open,” Marcus said, his voice gravel deep.
I obeyed.
The first push of him over my tongue made me moan, the sound muffled, shameful and needy all at once. His fingers tightened in my hair, guiding me, setting the pace. Slow at first, then deeper, harder, until my throat ached and my eyes watered.
“Look at me,” he begged.
I forced my eyes up. The sight of him undone, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple as he watched me, God, it made me ache all over again.
“Good girl,” he rasped, hips snapping forward, his length filling me. “Take me… just like that.”
Every word sent heat rushing lower, every stroke making me dizzy, desperate to please him.
He groaned low, dark, his grip tightening as he pulsed against my tongue. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted.”
When he finally let go, spilling into me with a guttural curse, his hand held me steady, making sure I took all of him. Only when he’d wrung every drop in me did he ease back, his thumb brushing my swollen lower lip.
“Mine,” Marcus said, voice hoarse, eyes locked on me. “Always.”
My whole body shivered.
His hands were still warm on my face when they slid lower, trailing over my chest, my stomach, until they found the hem of my skirt. The lace was still there, damp and clinging. He slipped it down my thighs slowly, carefully, until the fabric fell to the floor.
A whimper escaped me. Empty. Exposed. Needing more.
Marcus’s eyes darkened, hunger flashing across his face as he cupped my cheek again. “You want more?” he asked, voice low, almost reverent.
“Yes,” I breathed.
He exhaled hard, like I’d knocked the air from him. And when I looked down, when I saw him already hard again, my jaw dropped. “How?” I whispered, shocked and aching.
“Because it’s you,” he said, pulling me tight against him. “Look at you, Aria. Do you even know what you do to me?”
The next moment, I was bent facedown across his desk, the cool wood against my cheek, my arms spread wide to brace myself. Papers scattered, pens clattered to the floor.
Marcus’s hand slid up my spine, anchoring me. “Stay quiet,” he warned, his breath hot against my ear. “Your father’s office is down the hall.”
Heat flared through me, wild and dangerous. I nodded, biting my lip to keep from making a sound. Then he pushed into me, slow, deep, devastating. My eyes squeezed shut, nails digging into the polished wood as I fought to hold back a cry.
Every thrust was harder, hungrier, his hips driving me against the desk. My breath came out in sharp little gasps, muffled against my arm.
Marcus’s grip tightened at my waist, his control fraying as he rasped, “You feel too good… too damn good. You’ll be the death of me.”
I wanted to scream his name, to beg him not to stop, but all I could do was hold on, shuddering against the desk as wave after wave crashed through me.
When it finally broke, when I came undone around him, shaking, silent tears on my cheeks from holding back the sounds, he followed. He groaned low, burying himself deep, his body trembling against mine as he let go too.
For a long moment, all I heard was our ragged breathing, the hum of fluorescent lights above, the faint sound of footsteps fading down the hall.
Then Marcus eased out, smoothing his hands over my hips, down my thighs, grounding me. He kissed the back of my shoulder, tender after the storm.
“Mine,” he whispered, reverent and raw.
And I believed him.