21. Marlowe
CHAPTER 21
Marlowe
C rawl.
Oh, sweet Lord.
Right.
Okay. I can do this.
For what he’s paying me, I can humiliate myself.
My opinions aren’t relevant.
The only route to success here is doing exactly what he wants.
The happier he is with me, the more secure my job is.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s staring at me as if I will deliver him to the Promised Land if I abide by his wishes, all hooded eyes and harsh breaths and strong fingers closing over his hard dick.
I twist my body, dropping my palms to the carpet so I’m on all fours, and I start to crawl—cautiously, because crawling is not second nature to me, funnily enough, and it’s even tougher when the pointy toes of your new shoes are catching in the thick pile of the carpet every time you move.
The logistical challenges are a relief, partially absolving me from fixating on how my rear view must look in this flimsy thong as I channel my inner Baby from Dirty Dancing and attempt to slink away from Brendan in a seductive, feline manner.
‘God, yeah, that’s it,’ he rasps behind me.
His validation is an instant shot of dopamine to my insides.
‘Oh, fuck. Look at the way your arse moves when you crawl. Keep going. Just like that.’ I sense him approaching and stop when I reach the centre of the room, forcing myself to arch my back a little so my bottom sticks out.
He must squat behind me, because he slides his knuckles down the now-damp strip of my thong, and my nerve endings dance to attention as, deeper inside, my core clenches in anticipation.
This couldn’t feel filthier—parading around on my hands and knees in gifted lingerie for a guy who’s bought my services.
There’s a rip of foil, followed by some heavy breathing as he wrestles the condom on.
Then Brendan pushes my thong to one side, exposing me properly, and teases me with his fingertips.
‘Would you look at that?’ he mutters as his fingers move noisily through my wetness.
‘Absolutely fucking drenched, already. So you like sucking me off in my office then, hmm?’
‘Y-yes,’ I manage.
‘That is very good news. I’m such a lucky bastard.
Now, you’d better stay nice and quiet like we discussed.
’ He steps between my legs on his knees, and I widen for him, bracing on my hands for balance.
I hope he’ll fit. I may be wet, but it’ll be seriously deep like this.
Seriously deep, and seriously dirty.
No wonder he said it was his favourite position.
Then he’s pushing in, and—God—it’s so big and invasive, stretching me as he goes, but it’s a relief, too, to know how fully he’ll fill me up.
All those fancy new presents and lingering touches and charming, cheeky whispers earlier, and it’s all led to this: my new boss getting ready to rail the living daylights out of me on his office floor.
‘Fuck, you’re tight,’ he says with a disbelieving laugh.
‘I’d almost forgotten how—bloody hell , love.
’
I’m sweating as he edges his way in.
My wrists ache already.
I can tell he’s trying his hardest to hold off for my sake.
But, finally, he’s all the way in, and it seems we both pause in sync to marvel at this physiological wonder.
He smooths a hand down my neck and back, glossing over my hair and tracing the column of my spine before both his hands come to my hips and grip tightly.
When he pulls out of me, he sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth.
‘I wish you could see what I see. Best sight ever. You’re so fucking gorgeous.
’
I love that. I’m so exposed for him like this, so I love that he’s getting off on the view.
All I can see is the carpet, the city skyline through the bank of windows in front of me and, if I hang my head, Brendan’s knees between mine, his trousers pooling around them.
The slivers of thigh are thick and hairy, and it feels so brutish for him to be taking me like this.
I suspect that’s what he is: a big, sexy brute in a beautiful suit.
And now I rhyme, apparently.
He gets into a rhythm—thrusts punishing, balls slapping against my thong and my skin, fingers digging in so hard I suspect they’ll leave bruises—and the fit is so tight, the drag of his dick along my inner walls so fucking amazing, like life-affirmingly amazing.
I brace myself as well as I can, but I find myself shunting back to meet him when he bottoms out in me and then rolling my hips before he withdraws.
None of it’s performative.
It seems my body knows what to do better than I do, because neither of my previous partners ever took me like this.
My moves are instinctive, purely to maximise my pleasure and, I hope, Brendan’s, but on some level I’m aware that I am an active participant in this; I’m bucking and arching and taking every drop of sensation he’s giving me just as he seems to be wringing me for every drop he can take from me .
I chase it and chase it, more shamelessly than I thought I was capable of doing, and the pressure inside me builds as he fucks me and fucks me, because Jesus, this man has stamina.
It’s sweaty and messy, and we may not be crying out or screaming, but we’re definitely both grunting and panting in a way that makes me hope no one out there has their ear pressed to the door.
‘You’re going to come, aren’t you?
’ Brendan huffs out.
‘You’re so close.’
‘Yeah,’ I gasp.
‘Yeah, I just need?—’
‘I know, baby. I’ve got you.
Here, take this.’
Bloody hell, he ramps up his pace and intensity, ploughing into me with such blunt force that my vagina should really develop a survival instinct that comes with several alarm bells, but it just carries on drinking up everything this guy has to give it.
Which is a lot .
I’m powerless against such a spectacular show of dominance, such a marathon of masculinity.
Every single thing in my life reduces to this one point of contact where he’s doing battle with his majestic dick.
The heat builds and then releases inside my body like the most beautiful crescendo, and I’m molten and boneless and gooey as my orgasm wrings me out over and over, vaguely aware that the gorgeous man behind me is letting rip with a string of filthy curses at how gratifying he finds my reaction to him.
‘The way you fucking milk me,’ he rasps.
‘Jesus fuck, it should be fucking illegal. I can feel every fucking tremor.’
He’s not far behind me, going impossibly swollen and rigid before coming with a strangled roar and a volley of pumps that feel so staggeringly good against my sensitive flesh that they have me wondering what it would feel like if he were bare and emptying himself inside me rather than a condom.
No, Marlowe. Bad thought.
Bad . Not only is this guy probably fucking half of London on his nights off, but he probably has super sperm.
No more unplanned pregnancies, thank you very much.
When he’s done, he collapses on top of me, bracing himself on one hand so he can wrap the other one around my waist. Against my back, his chest radiates heat through the still-crisp cotton of his shirt.
He lets out the most enormous sigh into my hair—the sated sigh of a victorious predator after a cardio-heavy hunt—before stroking the skin of my stomach with his hand.
Deep inside me, his dick twitches.
He releases me, straightening up, and I feel the loss of his body heat keenly.
I wince as he pulls out of me, and he slaps me on my bare bottom.
‘Well, that was very fucking good. I must get HR to add it to the onboarding manual.’