Chapter Forty-Six Rae
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Rae
I SETTLE BACK ONTO the shiny, padded black surface, staring up at the pressed-tin ceiling.
Grant grabs my thighs and drags me to the end of the bench, slowly slides my skirt up, and lets out a low, gravelly sound as he reveals first the garters and, above them, my complete lack of underwear. The man usually knows what to say, so I’ll take his inability to find words as a good thing.
A deep inhalation and then the snap of one garter. “You know, when you got down on hands and knees in the office, I had an inkling? I pictured a thong.”
The leather’s cold under my ass, the sensation of lying back like this almost clinical until the rough pads of his fingers stroke me, and then it is anything but.
The music is slow, the beat heavy but subtle. Sexy. Warm.
“Now, tell me the truth, Sunny,” Grant says as he kisses my neck and my cleavage before moving down to my lower half. “Did you come?”
My whispered no! feels wrenched from my lungs.
“Hmmmm.” I see the doubt written plainly on his face. “Last night? This morning?”
“No, sir.”
His grunt is pleased. I think. I can’t tell. I want to ask him if he came, but I’m not sure I’m allowed, and then he’s cupping my breast and my linguistic skills fly the coop.
My hands flail out and land on handles apparently meant for grabbing just like this.
Grant’s now making his slow way up a leg, down the other, ignoring my aching pussy like it’s not the objective here.
When we both know it is.
“I want…”
“What, sweet girl? Tell me.”
I shake my head.
“If you want it, say it.”
“Touch me,” I beg.
“Where? Here?”
At my eager nod, he gives a touch, light and quick, on my mound. Strokes and applies pressure to my abdomen just above it. I curl up, but he urges my legs down. “No. No, no, no. You don’t move. At all.”
I squirm, and he slaps me between the legs, making me go perfectly still. I don’t want any more slapping. Or do I? I think I do.
Crap, it’s all mixed up. The pleasure, the pain, the simplicity of taking whatever he gives. I was already wet with want when I left the house this morning. Now I’m absolutely soaking.
“What about you?” I finally ask, dying to know. “Did you get to come?”
“What do you think?”
He sweeps my right leg back, presses my other thigh to mirror it, and I’m spread wide open in this dark, cavernous place.
“I… I… don’t know.”
The laugh he lets out is devoid of humor. “I came three times, baby. Twice last night. Once this morning to take the edge off.” The graze of his thumb over my entire pussy is too light to satisfy, but the aftershocks it sets off light up nerve endings I had no idea were there.
Again. Again. And each time, I bow up off the bench for just a touch, a taste of whatever he’ll give me.
His laugh turns wicked because he knows exactly what he’s doing. I have a sudden fear. Is he toying with me?
“You’ll let me come now, right?”
No answer. Just the warm hint of a mouth close to where I want it.
“Please. Please, sir. Touch me. Please.”
“I jerked myself in bed last night, picturing you on this bench. Begging.”
“I… I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what, sweetheart?”
“For… for wanting it so bad.”
“Don’t be sorry for that.” The words are puffs of heat, teasing my sensitive flesh. I spread my legs wider, arch higher, for just one touch of his lips. His tongue. He could bite me and I’d be happy.
“I’m not. I think it’s mesmerizing, how hard you’re trying to work your body on my face.”
A long, lazy hum brings his lips right where I want them. Almost. Almost. So close, I’m dying.
“God, you smell good. Ripe and warm and sweet.” Another tease, more heat, a hint more contact. The man’s an expert at pushing me to the brink. I hate him for it. I want it. I need it.
“Maybe you don’t need to come right now.”
I sit up straight. Pissed as I’ve ever been, and the bastard laughs at me before his face goes stern. He walks up behind me, wraps a hand around my throat, and tugs me back without a hint more pressure than that.
The anger of a second ago turns into something else. Almost frantic. I’m desperate, needy, Sméagol with my precious. I’m dying to bargain. “I’ll do what you want,” I tell him. “Anything.”
“Oh, baby. No. No, no, no, no.” He’s beside me, that hand stroking my throat, the hint of threat more forbidding than a choke hold.
His other hand’s traveling down me, over my clothes, like he’s got all the time in the world, and we’re not in a rush to see this through before lunchtime is over.
“No. You don’t give consent like that. Not when I’m standing here, hard as nails, thinking about all the ways I could take you.
Here.” He caresses my throat. “Here.” An insinuating nudge of one breast toward the other has me picturing him between them, the way I’d struggle to make it good.
The way he’d use me for his pleasure. The way I’d let him.
A light slap on my hip, under the edge of the bench, to my ass, which he palms hard. “I’d take you here.”
Finally—oh god, finally—he’s spreading me wider, stepping between my legs, and dipping his head down, down, and his mouth lands on my lips, and…
“Higher. Please. Lick my clit.”
He laughs, slaps my inner thigh, and tongues my opening.
“Sir,” I beg. “Please. General. Grant.”
Another lick. Another. “I don’t think so.”
“What? What? You can’t—”
“I can.” He steps back. I crane my neck to watch him unzip his trousers and pull himself out, step close to me, and—holy mother of all gods—take himself in hand. “I’m coming on this pussy,” he warns, his look telling me to speak now if I don’t want that or forever hold my peace.
“Green,” I whisper, which puts a smile on his mouth.
A dozen strokes, and he’s doing exactly what he threatened. It is mesmerizing, the way he loses it, right at the end, his hair a mess, sweat beading at his temples. It’s when our gazes connect that the switch fully flips.
The first hot jet stripes my inner thigh. He grunts with every warm pulse, his eyes flicking from my face to where he’s painting me with his pleasure.
I strain for contact. I’m so close, it wouldn’t take much at this point.
Finally, he finishes with a long, satisfied sigh, and I want to scream from frustration.
And Grant, my god, he must be a sadist after all, given how placid he is. How easy, how pleased. He cleans me up, cleverly avoiding direct contact with my neediest bits, presses my legs together, drags my skirt down over my hips, and helps me up to sitting.
“Good girl.”
“You asshole.”
“No, no, no, sweetie. You’ll see. It’ll be so good when it’s over.”
“Over? What? When is that?”
A kiss pressed to my temple. “Later.”
“No. Oh my god, I hate you so much.”
“Do you?” A smirk. “Come on. Let’s get you hydrated.”
I growl. The jerk just laughs.
Twenty minutes later, I’m back at my desk, fed, watered, and coddled within an inch of my life. I’m also angry as a wet hen that he won’t put me out of my misery.
Nonetheless, I don’t once consider going to the bathroom and taking care of it myself. That would be cheating. And Grant knows as well as I do that I’m a rule follower at heart.