Chapter Thirty-Five Grant
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Grant
I WAIT THROUGH THE sound of footsteps. The exterior door beeping open and closing again.
The plan was to turn Sunny into a quivering mess. That was the plan. The second I sink to my knees and look at her pussy, I’m obliged to concede that the plan is flawed.
“Fuck,” I hear myself whisper, enthralled. “You smell so goddamn good. Need to taste you.”
She makes a little sound of protest. A don’t look at me sound. A sound that says she likes it and she wants it but she’s maybe never had it like this before. Like a sex goddess, the center of the world.
“Look at it. All wet like that.” My thumb strokes lightly down her soaking middle, opening her up to my view. “So fucking soft.” I’ve got no choice but to push her wide and dive in, face-first.
Big, big mistake. Because the taste of this woman’s pussy, on a scale of one to sell your soul to the devil, is beyond infinity. I’m a man possessed, driven by a need that’s insatiable.
It should freak me out, but that’s the thing about the best/worst mistakes. When you’re in the depths of one, it feels so goddamn good that you don’t care how wrong it is.
So, yeah, that’s where I am. Halfway to perdition. And fucking glad to be there.
Instead of slow-build seduction, I’ve gone straight to growling, open-mouthed feast. “Been dying for this,” I mutter, forcing myself to pull back and stare at how much pinker she’s gone in the last few seconds.
A second later, I dive back in, give her my tongue, my nose, and, hell yes, nip her with my teeth. She’s bucking toward me like she wants more. Like she’s close.
With effort, I give my hand space to slide in and explore her slickness with my knuckles and then stroke her open, gently, like she’s made of soft petals, and what the hell is happening? I’ve never once thought of flowers when I’ve done this.
“You’ll be quiet when you come all over my face, Sunny,” I say, my voice low and gruff, even to my own ears. “If I let you come.”
She whimpers, and I immediately make myself stop.
“I said not to make any noise, you little brat. You got that?” I stand up behind her, not touching. “Can’t stop thinking of how good it would feel to slide inside you.”
Her groan tells me she likes the idea.
“Not today, Sunny.” Her whimper makes me laugh, low and wicked. “No. You’ll have to wait for that.”
Another impatient sound, and I give her ass a quick, light thwack.
A muffled gasp.
“You like that?” I lean over her and line my face up with hers, meeting her gaze as she nods. It’s the first eye contact we’ve had since this started, and it shuts my systems down for a beat.
What was I saying? Right. “You like your punishment?”
Her eyebrows dip into what has got to be a pout. I grin, let my body cover hers, and press my iron-hard erection against her.
“This is how it’ll be if I give you my cock. You feel that?”
She nods, each breath frantic, as she cranes back to maintain eye contact.
Fuck me, this woman’s beautiful. Dancing, smiling, stretched out on her desk like an offering.
I watch her, filled with the strangest sensation.
Like there are two of me, this one, running through the motions of a scene I can’t stop dreaming of, and my double, hovering somewhere beside me, watching, waiting. For what, I have no idea.
I shake my head, blink hard to pop out of it, and concentrate on Sunny’s back lifting and falling, her rear end presented to me like a gift, her hands white at the knuckles where they clutch the far end of her desk.
Then I make the mistake of meeting her gaze again, those big eyes, somehow naive and all-knowing and completely hazed with lust, and that’s all it takes to send what’s left of my tightly held control slipping like sand through my fingers.
Why is that? Why would her lost expression make my stomach go tight and clench my jaw hard enough to break teeth?
The skin of her cheekbones a hot pink. That deep divot in the middle of her bottom lip—obvious even with the way they’re stretched wide with the paper still inside.
Why would any of this make me want to swipe everything from her desk, flip her over, put my mouth to hers, and take her, slow and deep?
These urges make no sense. I don’t lose it. Not at the club and certainly not here.
Control is everything.
But that little freckle—the one that looks like a perfect little teardrop under her left eye? That is my last straw?
I search wildly around us for something—anything—to latch on to. There’s nothing. The rules are gone, rolled up into a ball in her mouth.
And whose fault is that? Shit. No. I will not lose all control because of one solitary freckle.
“Turn over,” I order, pushing my voice to the deep, crisp place where I prefer it to be. I ease my aching erection away from where it’s dying to be. “Now, Sunny. Don’t make me wait.”
She obeys.
Good. Good. Much better.
“Spread. Wide. Heels on the desk.”
She tries to say something through her gag.
“Are you using your safe word?”
She shakes her head.
“Is there something you need to say?”
Another headshake, with a bratty little eye roll.
“Hold your legs. Here. And here. I’ll be fucking you with my fingers now.” My attention moves down her body. “Gonna make this plump little pussy come. When and how I decide. Got it?” At her eager nod, I use my thumb to open her up again and ease it inside. “That’s so nice. So fucking wet.”
Her blush darkens, and I can feel by how she clenches that the praise doesn’t just go to her head. It goes right here, to this hot, slick place between her legs.
I move in again, slow, deep. She responds with a moan. I give her thigh a light slap. “Quiet. Or I stop. You want that?”
She shakes her head frantically.
“Keep these wide. Stay quiet. This’ll be over soon.”
Like it’s a chore she has to sit through. A duty instead of this intense, illicit pleasure.
I drop slowly to my knees, and this time, instead of the wild, ravenous beast, I am calm, methodical.
Yes, my dick’s pounding, but that’s not an issue.
It’s not an issue that I’m letting this happen at work either.
And how, more than anything, I want to drag her onto the floor, make her sit on my face, and force one climax after another from this sweet, sweet body?
Not. An. Issue. Nothing is an issue when I’m in the zone. Calm, clearheaded, controlled.
Slowly, carefully, I work her with my mouth, my tongue.
Her clit’s a hard, sensitive bead, and every time I flick it, she goes tight around my invading finger.
I push her up. Up, up, up, with systematic pressure, using her reactions as a guide, plunging deeper into her with a second finger.
Work her up and up, then hold her at the top…
Control her orgasm the way I do everything.
I calmly give, and I calmly take, and this is where I feel the deepest satisfaction.
I mutter things, monitoring every twitching limb and clenching muscle, as her writhing and panting reach a fever pitch. I then press a third finger inside, right on that G-spot, and suck hard on her perfect little clit, and…
As she starts to fall apart, I rise, my fingers still pumping inside her, drag her up, tearing the wad of paper from her mouth and pressing my face to her neck.
My body soaks it all up—the trembling, the harsh breaths, the quiet way she whisper-screams against my shoulder. It’s glorious. And it’s mine.
At some point, while my still very turned-on body absorbs her tremors, she flops back and looks up at me.
The hazy, lost look on her face makes me want to wrap her up in something warm and feed her one disgusting pumpkin spice drink after another, in a bath, with pumpkin spice candles if she wants.
She deserves soft towels and a big, cozy bed.
“Come here,” I whisper, bending to nuzzle her cheek, her ear, and the curve below her jaw. Back up to her lips. Before I can think it through, I’m kissing her.
It’s the wrong kind of kiss for what we are. I know that. But it feels too good to stop.