Chapter 9 #3
His hands grip me harder, keeping my legs open and still as he sucks my clit into his mouth and rolls it with his tongue.
His fingers thrust back into me, curling, twisting, moving in rhythm as he feasts like a man starved.
I reach down, my hands flying to his hair, fisting it as my hips begin to rock forward into his face.
I lay back on the desk, the cool wood against my spine grounding me while the rest of me floats. I feel his tongue replace his fingers, plunging deep into me. He groans as he tongue-fucks my pussy, his grip moving to the base of my ass, pulling me tighter against his mouth.
The sensation builds fast. His lips find my clit again and suck harder. His fingers thrust deep, curling upward, hitting that spot that makes my entire body contract. A wave crashes through me, relentless and hot, as my thighs tremble and I orgasm all over his face.
My legs fall open wider, uncontrollable now. He slides his tongue deep again, my juices coating his lips, his chin, and his mouth as he laps up every drop. He's insatiable. The wet sounds echo in the silence of the office, vulgar and hypnotic, as I try to catch my breath and process the moment.
But before any of that, I hear him unbuckle his belt.
The clink of metal. The swift hiss of his zipper.
I barely have time to look up before he's standing between my legs again.
He pulls down his pants and his briefs in one motion and I gasp at the size of his long, thick cock — hard, glistening in the office light.
He grabs my hips, dragging me to the edge of the desk.
Without hesitation, he locks his eyes with mine as he pushes inside.
I gasp — loud and sharp — as his cock fills me, the stretch immediate, the pressure exquisite.
The angle is deep, the table perfectly aligned for him to drive in hard and deep.
His arms anchor around my thighs, holding me open as he begins to thrust. Hard. Slow. Deep. The sounds of skin meeting skin mix with our breaths, ragged and hot. My hands fly around his shoulders, and my nails dig into his back. I feel the sting of my own grip. I don't care.
"Fuck me," I cry out, loud and reckless. Maybe it's the thrill of the sensation. The anger and frustration I feel. Or maybe it's this — this moment, this pace, this hunger that's lived inside me for the past few weeks since that night in Dallas.
His eyes darken at my words, and he wraps his hand around my neck, not too rough, but enough to feel his dominance. He slams deeper into me, his pace brutal now. His grunts grow louder. The slap of our bodies fills the room.
I can't hold back. It hits fast — my orgasm — a wave that starts deep in my core and spreads like fire. My moan rips from my throat, long and drawn out, my back arching off the table, my pussy walls pulsing around his cock.
"Logan—" I cry, clutching him harder.
"You want me to stop?" he growls in my ear, as he slows his pace for a moment.
I look into his haunting blue eyes, my entire body vibrating with want and desire.
"Don't stop," I plead.
He thrusts hard and fast a few more times, his jaw clenched, and then I feel it — his release. Deep, pulsing, filling me completely. A raw sound tears from his throat as he holds inside me, buried deep, his cock twitching as his cum coats my walls.
I lay back, legs still parted, completely undone.
His head drops, forehead brushing my shoulder.
He breathes heavy against my skin. Then, slowly, he pulls out.
His cock slides free, thick and glistening with cum.
I can feel it dripping from me. I lift my head and glance down, staring at the mess between my thighs. He stares too.
Then he looks up and his eyes meet mine.
Neither of us speaks. The only sounds in the room are our breathing — ragged, slowing, finding their way back to something like normal.
The city sits beyond the windows the same as it always has.
The desk is still the desk. The office is still the office. None of it looks the same.
I sit up slowly. My body feels different — heavier and lighter at the same time, every nerve still humming. I slide off the desk, my feet finding the floor. I reach down and pick up my panties from where they landed, and I straighten my dress with hands that are steadier than I expect them to be.
I look at him.
He's watching me. His pants still undone, shirt disheveled, chest rising and falling.
His eyes are dark and fixed on me with an intensity that hasn't dimmed — if anything it's deeper, something unlocked in his expression that I've never seen before and don't have a name for.
Like what just happened didn't satisfy whatever this is. Like it only opened a door.
He reaches down slowly and pulls up his pants. The zip. The belt buckle. His eyes never leave mine.
I pick up the papers scattered across the floor — the timeline spreadsheet, the pages that went everywhere when the desk became something else entirely.
I gather them without looking at what they say.
I set them in a neat stack that neither of us will think about tonight.
I walk to his office door. My hand closes around the handle.
"Sutton."
His voice is low. Just my name. Nothing else. I stop. I don't turn around fully. I look back over my shoulder — just enough, not enough to meet his eyes directly.
"Goodnight," I say.
I pull the door open and walk to my desk. I pick up my bag. I close my laptop. I don't look back at his office door.
The corridor is quiet under my footsteps. I press the elevator button and the doors open immediately. I step inside. The doors close.
I'm alone. My heart is still hammering. My body is still warm everywhere. I stare straight ahead at my own reflection in the polished elevator doors — the same face, the same woman — and I ride down to the lobby in silence, carrying everything the night just became.