20. Marlowe
CHAPTER 20
Marlowe
T he soft metallic shunt of the lock slotting into place has me spinning around where I stand.
And when I do, I’m in no doubt as to its significance.
Brendan settles his huge frame against the doorframe and slides his hands into his pockets as he assesses me.
Sunlight dances across his face, across that broad, white-shirted chest, as he lounges with the easy assurance of a predator who has his prey cornered and knows dinner is moments away.
Because the indulgent shopping trip was just a prelude, and I should make no mistake about it.
This is why I’m here.
He extricates a hand from his pocket and crooks his finger at me.
‘Come here.’ His voice is much lower than usual, and it sends an ominous thrill through me.
‘Turn around,’ he says when I reach him, and I do.
He smooths his hands down my hair, twisting it into a rope and placing it over one shoulder.
‘So pretty,’ he coos as he eases the chunky zip all the way down my back.
‘Remember when I said we’d have to be quieter in here?
’
‘Yes.’ He said that jokingly in the club when he was still inside me, but it feels important now, because it’s broad daylight, and there are dozens of people getting on with their jobs mere metres from us, and thick glass walls don’t strike me as the most robust privacy measure.
‘Keep that in mind,’ he says against my ear before he bends to undo the zip all the way down to my hem so he can straighten up and slide the dress off my shoulders like a coat that’s on backwards.
He’s seen me naked in the club, in that opulent dressing room, but here I am in nothing but heels and lingerie in the sunlit office of a kinky CEO, and it all hits me at once—the vulnerability of my position.
The shame of it. The unavoidable truth of my being paid to be here, to do this.
To let him strip me and use me.
It sluices over me like a bucket of water, and I’m glad he can’t see my face.
I feel stricken; there’s no other word for it.
Stricken and alone and uneasy.
Brendan caresses my waist, my hips, like he did in the changing room earlier.
He sighs, and it’s warm against my shoulder.
‘Turn around.’
I steel myself, and I do, and God, his eyes are so blue in this light as I look up at him.
It’s astonishing, really.
His gaze drops to my chest in its new lacy Agent Provocateur bra and then moves lower, and he groans a little as he slides his hands back to my hips.
Honestly, that feels astonishing too, because I’m pretty sure I just witnessed spontaneous ovulation from dozens of women down in reception.
Walking through the building with him, looking at him through their eyes, was eye-opening to say the least. Yes, he’s the CEO, so he’s bound to garner some level of attention, admiration.
But there was nothing professional about the way those women were mentally undressing him.
And now I’m here with him, in his palatial corner office, and he’s mentally undressing me in exactly the same way.
The only difference?
He intends to do a hell of a lot more than that.
Despite my nerves, despite the surreal, intense charge of this situation, that gives me a kick, because there’s no denying the man is beautiful.
You lucky bitch, I admonish myself.
This guy is the prize everyone in this building wants, and he wants to play with you.
His gaze comes back up to my face, and we stare at each other as I wait for him to make his move.
He smiles slowly, confidently, and I know it’s game on.
‘Get on your knees, love.’
And there it is.
I really, really hope I was right about blowjobs.
I hope it’s like riding a bike, because I am seriously out of practice.
Brendan takes my hands and holds them tightly so I can sink to my knees in four-inch heels without going sideways.
I hit the plush white carpet and look up at him.
Holy crap, he’s tall from this angle.
‘Take me out like a good girl.’
His voice is strained, and there’s already a serious bulge going on behind those very nice wool trousers.
I’m under no illusions as to the size of this guy, but his God-given blessings practically hit me in the face as I pull down his flies and rummage in the small space to find the slit in his boxers.
Can I even get him out like this, or do I need to undo his belt buckle and buttons too?
Jesus, I’m rusty.
He doesn’t seem to notice my lack of elegance, though.
He groans again, low in his throat, as I abandon any hope of getting his dick out this way.
It brings new meaning to the analogy of trying to fit a camel through the eye of a needle.
Anyway, he’ll want me to play with his balls, I assume.
I may as well give myself full access.
I shift on the carpet and mentally grit my teeth.
I can do this. I have a degree and an MBA.
I’m a professional overachiever.
I can work out how to get a guy off, even if the dizzying amount of money he’s paying me to do it makes the stakes terrifyingly high.
I make quick work of his belt buckle, conscious that the only sounds in here are those of leather against metal and his ragged breaths.
For the most part, I’m holding mine.
Belt undone, I undo the little metal hook thingy and the button and slide his trousers down.
His boxer briefs are black again, his monster dick making a valiant break for freedom.
I wrench down his boxers and it springs out, hard and hot and as intimidating as a fully loaded assault rifle.
Jesus Christ . I glance up at him, for reassurance maybe.
The expression on his handsome face gives me pause.
He’s flattened his palms against the door as if seeking strength and balance, but the look on his face is feral, desperate , and I feel a weird surge of power.
He’s using me.
He’s paying me.
But look how much he wants me.
Or, at the very least, wants what I have to offer.
There are dozens, if not hundreds, of women in this firm who’d be happy to suck the CEO’s dick for whatever reason, but only one of them has her mouth inches from its engorged, angry crown.
I wrap my hand around his shaft—so satin-smooth, so hard —and I run my tongue over his slit.
The man practically shoots through the ceiling.
He slides his hands through my hair, cupping my jaw, his fingers taut, vibrating with tension.
‘That’s very good, love.
Do that again.’
This low, commanding Bedroom Voice he’s using is so ominously hot that a spot of moisture hits my thong.
So I do it again, and he groans.
Okay, so I was right, and Athena was right.
Men are pretty basic.
This isn’t rocket science.
When a guy is this turned on, it’s hard to get it wrong.
He tastes—good, I think.
Clean. Earthy. Male.
God, it’s been so long since I did this, so long since I smelt this scent and tasted this part of a man’s body.
‘Take me in your mouth,’ he orders me.
I have a feeling he’s going to talk me through this whole thing, and why shouldn’t he?
He’s paying for the privilege, after all, and honestly?
I kind of like it. Let’s not forget what this is.
I look up at him through my eyelashes before focusing on wrapping my lips around his crown.
I use my tongue to find that little notch on its underside—Joe used to go crazy when I licked that—and he moans his satisfaction.
Seems to me he may want to heed his own advice around noise levels.
His hands drag along my jaw so his fingers can flex in my hair.
‘Look at you. So fucking angelic this morning with your blonde hair and white lace, and look at you now, sucking my cock like the perfect little whore. So fucking good. I’ve wanted you on your knees for me since the first time I saw you.
’
I moan my agreement.
It’s intentional, part of my performance for him, but his filthy brand of appreciation is doing it for me.
Blow jobs aren’t supposed to be hot for the woman—they’re the ultimate act of service, of submission—but this whole fucked-up power dynamic is getting me hot and bothered, and I have no idea why.
He tightens his grip on my hair so he can use it as a kind of rein.
It seems his entire body is vibrating before me, and I marvel that my mouth has the capability of undoing a man as powerful and fierce as Brendan Sullivan, but it does.
His breath is harsh and noisy, his thighs are trembling.
The next time I move to take him all in, his hand forces me further down around his dick, and I have to inhale sharply through my nostrils to override my gag reflex.
Sweat pricks me everywhere.
Fuck. I claw at his thigh with my free hand as I focus on my single objective—to survive this.
To take him as deep as he wants and needs without retching.
We find a rhythm. It’s messy and punishing, and I’m gasping and flailing, my eyes watering, but he seems to like that, because his thrusts and his grunts and his fingers in my hair all grow more desperate, it seems.
Until he pulls out of me with a strangled gasp, and I stare up at him through my watery eyes.
‘Jesus fuck. Fucking look at you.’ He blows out a breath.
‘Okay. Here’s what I want.
Turn around and crawl away from me, nice and slow, until you get into the middle of the room.
I want you to wait there on all fours so I can come and fuck you like that. Got it?’