8. Sophia
8
SOPHIA
Today’s workday done list:
Three orgasms, tick.
Lost my virginity, tick.
Got engaged to my boss, tick.
Nearly died of heatstroke caused by my own cheeks, tick.
Boring paperwork, tick.
Overall: best day of my life. I’m a dog being given steak after a lifetime of dry kibble.
Between my legs still feels… Different. Stretched and tingly and new. The other part of me that’s altered is my tummy. It’s alternately full of butterflies and lead. What am I going to do? I was supposed to be getting married and having a baby to forget my crush on my boss, and instead I’ve said I’ll be tied to him forever, pretending to be a happy couple, watching him father our children, all the time knowing he doesn’t return my love.
But he needs me.
Sure, it’s only with fitting in better with the Maths Club kingpins, but that’s enough. It’s heady. Mr Streatham, billionaire and mafia boss, needs me .
Yes, it’s fake, and yes, it’ll hurt when he gets bored, or strays, or becomes tired of faking with his wife and decides to…
I cannot think about that.
The orgasms he gave me, they didn’t feel fake. And Mr Streatham inside me? More decadent than expensive chocolate, better than getting full marks on a test. More swoony than my favourite book.
I think about it for the rest of the afternoon as I work. I don’t see Mr Streatham. He’s in his office, and I’m out here with my rising anxiety and newly needy pussy.
I don’t usually see my boss all the time, but between him not calling me to get him a cup of tea or pull this or that file as he normally would, my worry mounts. It creeps towards five o’clock with all the haste of my favourite author writing the last instalment of the series after a massive cliffhanger.
Normally, he asks me to work late because my standard working hours are nine until five. So when it’s four-fifty-nine, I’m about ready to vomit with nerves.
He’s ignoring me.
Does he wish this hadn’t happened? Maybe I should just pretend I didn’t give myself to him, heart and soul and first times, on his desk? Go home, eat an entire family-sized bar of chocolate, watch something on television, and figure out how to leave Streatham.
“Miss Berry.” The abruptness with which my boss strides out of his office steals my breath, along with how—unlike me—he is unfazed. He gets as far as the door before he pauses, holds out his hand, and looks back at me.
“Is there something you need, Mr Streatham?” I venture.
Letting out an irritated huff, he drawls, “Your presence, Miss Berry.”
He takes my hand and pulls me with him into the corridor.
I have no words. Who is this man, and where is my uncompromising boss? He hasn’t stopped work this early since… Well. I don’t think he ever has.
The Streatham headquarters is an old country mansion, with rooms off a magnificent central stairwell that curls up the middle of the house, lighted by an atrium and leading into a lobby with a patterned marble floor that is usually hushed and quiet. As we descend the stairs to the ground floor, the various other Streatham departments have open doors, and the staff are congregated. They stare at their boss, holding hands with me.
Nerves slither like snakes in my belly. Everyone is looking at us.
Mr Streatham comes to a halt at the foot of the stairs. “You got my memo, then, thank you for responding to my note.”
His note? What? Mr Streatham has me write his notes to the staff.
“Today I asked Miss Berry to marry me, and I am honoured to announce that she has accepted.”
There’s stunned silence, then a smattering of applause that quickly turns into a roar of approval.
Oh my god. I wonder if any of them heard anything earlier…
Mr Streatham nods in acknowledgement, raises his hand like he’s king, then turns to me.
“No backing out now, darling,” he murmurs, catching my wrist and bringing it up to kiss my knuckles. Heat surges through me.
He made a very public declaration that we’re going to marry.
This is fine. It’s fine. I’m not panicking. At all.
I’m a bit faint as, out of the corner of my eye, I can see everyone looking at me. I bet they’re wondering why on earth he chose me, just his little assistant. They could be taking bets on how long it is before this blows up in my face. Probably they think this is a joke.
Mr Streatham nods again to his people, before leading me back upstairs and down the hallway, unlocking the door at the end with a hefty key.
I gasp as he leads me into what is immediately obvious is his private apartment, though it’s more like a whole wing of the mansion. Where the rest of the building is dark, austere, shiny wood and stone, formal portraits and bronze statues, this is comfortable. There are bright landscape paintings, leather sofas with warm-looking throws, and richly patterned wallpaper featuring plants and birds. Predictably, there’s no television, just an expensive music system and walls of books.
It feels like home.
So much so… “You have the same cushion as me!”
“I arranged for all your possessions to be delivered here and placed appropriately.”
I gape up at my fiancé.
“There are a few practical items in storage that my men assumed were not of sentimental value. Although they brought the ones they thought you probably liked.”
“But… How did you get into my house?” I stutter out.
Mr Streatham blinks with surprise.
“They just broke the door down,” he says, as though that’s perfectly reasonable and obvious. “Your address is on file with HR,” he adds because I’m staring at him, in shock for what, the fourth time today? Will I ever fully close my mouth again?
“You broke into my house?” I think I ought to be furious that he invaded my privacy? I should definitely be upset. But I’m weirdly pleased to not be managing things for once. The decision has been taken for me, every detail sorted, as though he’s played at being assistant rather than a mafia boss today. Mr Streatham hasn’t even asked. He’s just moved me into his house.
“It was practical.” He shrugs. “You were always going to move in with me, and this achieved that with no effort or fuss on your part.”
I had no idea this would happen so fast, and my heart is interpreting all his haste as affection, in a loveless marriage. That’s certain to get me hurt.
This breaking and entering—both to my home and my body—is insane. But he wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t want me, in some small way, right? Though it’s far from “I love you”.
There’s a voice in my head and a tightness in my chest as I look at my possessions interspersed with his that says that being so close to what I truly want could be worse than only being his assistant.
Mr Streatham leads me out, still holding my hand. I follow like I’m his toy.
My eyes drag over the room he’s brought me to.
His bedroom, with my “Reading is Life” sticker-covered eReader on a bedside table.
And there’s one bed.
It might be huge, but the intention is very clear: I’m going to be sleeping in the same bed as my boss. The thrill that shimmers down my spine is unwarranted. This is a marriage of convenience. I mustn’t read anything into his actions.
And yet…
“Now, if we’re to be convincing as a couple, you need to tell me more about you, fiancée.” He returns to the living room, collapses onto the sofa and appears immediately comfortable, like a lion lying down in the grass. “What was that book I caught you reading at lunchtime last week?”
I follow and prop myself up at the other end of the seat. Fingering the fluffy throw, I shake my head. “Nothing, it was just?—”
“It wasn’t just anything,” he cuts me off. “Tell me.”
So I do. I show him the romcoms with bright covers that I love to read, and his silver eyes shine when I explain the jokes —very badly. Tea and treats arrive during our conversation, like my boss-fiancé is a country gentleman.
We don’t stop talking for the whole evening. About books, about family.
I should be shocked when he tells me with his customary matter-of-factness that he killed his father because he discovered he’d murdered his mother when Dex was eight. I’m not though. I’m reassured. A fifteen-year-old who cares enough about justice and revenge to do something so drastic, and then run a London mafia for twenty-four years has to be someone I can trust. Right?
And stupid as it might make me, I believe him when he says he’ll read my favourite romcoms, and men who read romance have to be good, even if they’re murderous kingpins. Hashtag book girly logic.
We’ve worked together for six months, but talking like this feels as though we’re going down a path we’ve looked at a hundred times but never dared step onto. And now we have, it’s all too natural.
I have to keep reminding myself that this is fake.
Mr Streatham narrows his eyes on my second yawn, after dinner of perfectly cooked steak and dessert that was creamy and rich.
“Bedtime,” he decrees.
When I come from the shower dressed in my pyjamas, I find him already in bed, sitting up, bare chested and wearing a pair of reading glasses that turn his hot professor vibe up to fifteen bazillion and the temperature to tropical. He’s reading a romcom that I recommended. One of mine, from my house, I realise.
He’s silent as I shuffle across the room, struggling not to cover myself, even though the little shirt and shorts combo is far more than I wore earlier in his office. I slip under the covers, and my future husband closes his book and turns out the light.
I lie on my side, eyes open in the dark, not knowing what to do. But Mr Streatham does. He shifts and slowly runs his hands down my body, lingering at my waist. Then he sighs.
“You’re tired.”
I am, but I’m also electrified by his touch. I’m lit up inside, as though he’s a power source and I’m a lamp.
This is an addiction. Already, I’m dangerously needy, kidding myself that he wants me too.
“I said I wanted to practise,” I whisper. I crave him, even if it’s a lie.
He scoops me up before I can roll over to face him, pressing me to his front, and my god. Within seconds he’s pushed off my pyjamas and has me naked and gently grasps my hair, pulls my head back, and drags his bristly-but-soft beard over my shoulder.
“So sweet, and good. Fuck, I don’t deserve you,” he mutters, and my brain shorts out. He thinks that?
Then he’s reached between my legs, and I can’t get any words out because he’s groaning that I’m being such a good girl for him and sliding his thick fingers into where I’m slick and hot.
I’m bracketed by him, held almost, and he strokes my clit, making me glow brighter and brighter.
He breaths in, as though relishing the scent of my hair, then pulls me closer still, his hard length pressing against my bottom.
“Let me in, little one.”
Darling in public, little one in private, I vaguely note as I allow him to lift my leg. The invasion of his cock isn’t so unfamiliar this time. There’s a sharp pain that fades almost immediately, and then the stretch that my body already understands is the precursor to pleasure.
And then he’s easing in and out of me with agonising slowness and my clit throbs as he plays with it. I’m helpless, languid and tired from an overwhelming day, and against all logic, I trust this man.
I lose all sense of time. All I can do is focus on where he’s touching me, stuffing me full of him with a relentless slow rhythm. I don’t know whether I’m glad of the respite when he withdraws almost to the tip, or disappointed. But eventually, I’m shaking and sobbing in his arms, and he’s reassuring me with a rumble that I feel more than hear.
Then I’m falling, clutching at his solid, muscled forearms, the hair both coarse and smooth under my fingers and the pleasure sweeps from where we’re joined right down to my toes in waves that surely change me at some basic level.
It’s world ending.
But only for me.
Because the first thing I realise when my body is relaxed again—though sparkling with internal magic he gave me—is that he’s an immovable rock in my storm.
He’s still hard.
I wait, but he doesn’t move. His breath is deep and even. This hasn’t affected him at all?
“Do you want to…” I begin.
“What, little one?” Dex replies, subtle laughter in his tone.
I screw up my courage. “Come?”
“That’s not our deal.”
“No, but…” I struggle to find the way to put this thought. Surely he’d enjoy this more if he finished? That would be worthwhile, although it would reduce the chance of me getting pregnant. “Isn’t it important for men?”
“Men who aren’t in control of themselves, maybe.”
He thrusts just enough to make me bite my lip to hold back a moan.
“Men who think they’ll die from a bit of discomfort or frustration.” Dex’s rough voice sends a fresh shudder down my spine.
It’s so weird being wrapped up in him, his arms around me, his cock lodged deep in my pussy, and not being able to see him. I’m taking all my cues from his words and his touch when usually when we talk it’s face-to-face in his office. And while he’s moved away from touching my clit, he’s smoothing his fingers over my legs and up to my waist.
“I want to come right up here.” He palms my belly. “I’ll plant my seed deep inside you, and knock you up. I want to fill you until it seeps out, then force you to hold it in. I’ll breed you in the morning before work and it’ll slide down your inner thighs until lunchtime when I’ll take you again, giving you more and more, until you’re overflowing. I promise I’ll give you everything you need and more to get pregnant.”
Oh my god. I failed to understand. It’s not going to be Dex’s frustration that compromises us waiting for when I’m fertile, so I have the best chance of getting pregnant. Nope. The issue will be that I’m desperate.
Despite having had multiple orgasms today, I’m unbearably horny for him to be satisfied. I want to see him fall apart like I did, in the wilderness of pleasure. I need to feel his hot warm seed filling me up and know it might get me pregnant with his child.
I can’t do this if I’m the only one not just in love, but hooked. Obsessed. I need his control to break and to have him desire me to the point of madness, like I do him.
I had no idea I’d be such a slut, but there you go.
Horny slut mode: engaged. Chaste little virgin: dead.
He gathers my hair up and tightens his grip. Every one of my nerve endings zings to life as he kisses and nibbles. The licks on that previously unknown sensitive spot behind my ear nearly make me come. Again.
And all the time, my pussy is stuffed with his hardness. I’m deliciously stretched.
“Men who don’t understand that the greatest privilege a woman can give him is not allowing him to breed her, or pleasure him. Because that’s easy… No, the best thing—the more difficult thing to achieve—is to give her overwhelming pleasure. To get her addicted to the way she feels with you.”
I am definitely addicted. Already. No need for Dex to prove anything. This is a disaster.
I’m also unspeakably jealous.
“You do this for all your partners?” I ask, as casually as I can.
“Did. There’s no one but you, Sophia. I’m not unfaithful. I won’t do that to our child.”
The baby. Right. Yes.
That’s all this is.
“Should I…” I go to shift away, off him.
“No. Stay.”
I blink, and try to relax.
He sighs with what sounds like contentment.
“That’s it.” He strokes my hair out of my eyes, and doesn’t seem to notice or care that I’m a sweaty mess after orgasming multiple times. “Stay there. Go to sleep.”
What?
“Yes, I said go to sleep. You said you were a virgin and needed to get used to my cock. Well. Here is your chance.”
Surely I can’t sleep with him inside me? Surely not?
But Dex’s arms wrap around me tighter, and I relax into them. I let my muscles give way, one by one, until I’m heavy on the mattress and in his embrace.
“That’s it. Sleep, little one,” he rumbles into my ear.
I can’t. I can’t do this. My heart is trying to burst out of my body because I love him so much. How am I going to do this every night without either letting on that my feelings are so much more than his, or breaking from the pain of him not loving me back?
But despite the solid length of him still hard inside me, filling me, or perhaps because of being stuffed with cock like it’s a comfort, I fall asleep. Fear and all.
I try to forget the heartbreak ahead.