Chapter 18
His voice, a low guttural promise that wraps around my insides and squeezes, is an ignition.
The last of my carefully constructed professional walls crumble into dust. The air in my office, which a moment ago was cool and still, is now thick and crackling with a voltage that is all too familiar. The game is on.
I lean forward in my chair, planting my elbows on my desk, my chin in my hands. I let my gaze sweep over him, a slow, deliberate appraisal from the tips of his expensive Italian shoes to the dark, hungry look in his eyes.
“Is that so?” I murmur, my voice a silky, confident purr I barely recognize as my own. “And here I thought you were only keeping me around for my encyclopedic knowledge of contract law.”
“Your knowledge of contract law is… adequate,” he says, his eyes glinting with amusement. He sets his whiskey glass down on the corner of my desk with a soft, definitive click. “But your other talents are far more… compelling.”
A reckless, giddy thrill shoots through me.
This is the first time since the day he walked into my life that I feel like I'm on even footing.
Not because I have any real power over him, but because I have finally, consciously, decided to wield the one weapon I possess: his undeniable, obsessive desire for me.
I stand slowly, the fabric of my dress whispering against my skin. I smooth a non-existent wrinkle from the front of my skirt, a deliberately provocative gesture that draws his eyes to my hips.
“Well,” I say, starting a slow, deliberate walk around my desk toward him. “If you’re not going to praise my legal brilliance, I suppose I should just pack up and go home for the night.”
I reach his chair and trail my fingers lightly over his shoulder as I pass, a fleeting, electric touch. I don't wait for his response. I turn and walk out of my office, my hips swaying just a little more than is strictly necessary. I hear his chair scrape against the floor behind me.
The chase is on.
I’m not running. I'm leading. The vast, empty office space of Donovan & Creed is our private playground.
The lights are dimmed, the city glitters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the silence is broken only by the soft click of my heels on the polished marble floor and the heavier, more purposeful, sound of his footsteps behind me.
I don't look back. I don't have to. I can feel the heat of his gaze on my back, a tangible pressure.
He is letting me have a head start, enjoying the pursuit.
I lead him through the deserted cubicle farms, down the silent hallways, past the darkened offices of people whose names I am only just beginning to learn.
The thrill of it is intoxicating, a dangerous, exhilarating dance.
I reach the end of the hallway to his office.
He doesn't grab me. He simply opens the door for his vast, dark office.
I step inside, my nerve endings singing.
I only make it two steps into the room before he is on me.
He slams the heavy office door shut, the sound a definitive, echoing boom that seals us off from the rest of the world.
He spins me around, and my back hits the cool, solid wood of the door with a jarring thud.
His mouth crashes down on mine.
It is a kiss of pure, unadulterated starvation.
A raw, desperate claiming. All the pent-up tension from the last few weeks, all the forced patience and careful handling, explodes in this single, violent act of possession.
It is not gentle. It is not tender. It is a brutal, hungry kiss that tastes of whiskey, power, and a deep, possessive need that steals the breath from my lungs.
His hands are everywhere, tangling in my hair, gripping my ass, pulling my body flush against his.
I can feel the hard, thick ridge of his erection pressing against my stomach, an insistent, undeniable promise of what is to come.
I kiss him back with a ferocity that matches his own, my hands sliding up his chest, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. I am just as starved as he is.
He drags his mouth from mine, leaving me gasping, my lips swollen and throbbing. “Fuck,” he groans, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath coming in ragged gusts. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? What hearing you talk to me like that, looking at me like that, does to me?”
Before I can answer, his hands are on mine, strong and unyielding.
He captures both of my wrists in one of his large hands and pins them to the door above my head.
I am trapped, my body exposed, my arms stretched.
The position is one of complete vulnerability, of total surrender, and it sends a fresh wave of liquid heat straight to my core.
“Don’t move,” he commands, his voice a low, guttural rasp.
With his free hand, he skims down my body, over my ribs, my stomach, until his fingers find the hem of my dress.
He bunches the expensive fabric in his fist, pulling it up, higher and higher, until it is gathered around my waist, exposing my legs, my hips, my silk-clad cunt to the cool air of the office.
“So perfect,” he murmurs, his gaze devouring me. “So fucking perfect for me.”
His fingers brush against the wet silk of my panties. I am already soaking for him. The game, the chase, the raw hunger in his eyes—it has been a devastatingly effective foreplay. I let out a low, needy whimper, my hips bucking instinctively against the empty air.
“Patience,” he whispers, a cruel, teasing smile in his voice.
He hooks two fingers into the sides of my panties and rips them down my legs in one swift, tearing motion.
The sound of the silk giving way is a raw, primal sound that makes my clit throb.
He doesn't even bother to take them off completely, just leaves them dangling around one of my ankles, a trophy of his conquest.
Then his fingers are on me. Two of them, slick with my own wetness, sliding over my folds, teasing my entrance. “Look at this,” he says, his voice thick with possessive pride. “Already dripping for me. You can’t even hide it, can you? How much you want this.”
He slides one finger deep inside me, then two. I cry out, my head thrashing against the door. He is thick, filling me, stretching me. His thumb finds my clit and begins to move in a slow, relentless, maddening circle.
“That’s it,” he praises, his voice a hypnotic rumble against my ear. “Come apart for me, Olivia. Right here, against my office door. Let me feel you shatter.”
I am a mess, a writhing, sobbing collection of raw nerves and pure pleasure.
The feeling of being so completely restrained, so utterly at his mercy, is an incredible aphrodisiac.
My world narrows to the pressure of his fingers inside me, the magic of his thumb against my clit, the solid wall at my back, and the city lights glittering through the window behind him.
“Please, Jasper,” I beg, not even sure what I'm asking for. The orgasm is a tight, coiling knot in my belly, getting closer and closer, an unbearable, exquisite tension.
“Please what?” he taunts, his rhythm becoming faster, harder. “Beg for it. Tell me what you want.”
“I want to come,” I sob, the admission ripped from me. “Please let me come.”
“Then come,” he commands, his thumb pressing down hard, his fingers fucking into me with a fast, brutal rhythm that sends me over the edge.
The orgasm is a violent, white-hot explosion. A scream is torn from my throat as my entire body convulses, a blinding, shattering release that leaves me boneless and trembling. I sag against the door, my wrists still pinned above my head, my legs shaking uncontrollably.
He lets me ride the aftershocks for a long moment, his fingers still buried deep inside me, feeling the frantic, fluttering pulse of my climax.
Then, slowly, he withdraws his fingers, slick and glistening with my cunt juice.
He doesn't release my wrists. He brings his wet fingers to his own cock, which is now free from his trousers, thick, long, and ferociously hard.
He strokes himself once, twice, coating his length with my essence.
“My turn,” he growls.
He positions himself between my spread thighs, his hips pressing against mine. And then he thrusts into me.
I scream his name as he fills me, stretching me, burying himself to the hilt in one deep, powerful motion.
He hooks an arm under my ass, lifting me with an ease that is terrifying, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He holds my entire weight against the door as he begins to fuck me, his rhythm hard, fast, and punishingly deep.
“You feel this?” he grunts, his lips finding mine for another bruising, open-mouthed kiss. “This is where you belong. Pinned, filled, and screaming my name.”
Every thrust is a collision of flesh, a branding.
The sound of our bodies slapping together echoes in the vast, silent office.
He is a force of nature, a storm, and I am at the center of it, being completely, utterly undone.
He fucks me like he owns me, which he does, and I meet every one of his savage thrusts with a desperate, hungry energy of my own.
His release is a guttural roar, his body going rigid as he pulses inside me, flooding me with his hot, thick seed. He buries his face in my neck, his teeth grazing my skin as he comes, his own body shuddering with the force of his climax.
He lets me slide down his body until my feet touch the floor, but he doesn't pull out. He just holds me there, pinned against the door, both of us panting, our bodies slick with sweat.
After a long moment, he releases my wrists. My arms, numb and tingling, fall to my sides. I lean my head back against the door, my eyes fluttering shut, completely and utterly spent.
But something has shifted. The fire he has reignited is still burning. The satiation is temporary. My body, after weeks of dormancy, has reawakened with a voracious hunger.
I open my eyes and look at him. He is watching me, a look of smug, possessive satisfaction on his face. He slips out gently but I’m not done. I reach down and wrap my fingers around his cock, which is still half-hard. I give him a slow squeeze.
His eyes widen in surprise.
I pull him by the hand, away from the door, toward the center of the room. “We’re not done,” I say, my voice a husky invitation.
He follows, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.
I push him down into his massive leather desk chair.
I kneel before him on the plush, expensive rug.
Without a word, I take his cock into my mouth.
I suck him with a desperate, ravenous energy, my eyes locked on his, watching his expression shift from surprise to raw, unadulterated pleasure.
He groans, his hands tangling in my hair, but he doesn’t direct me. He lets me have control.
And I am insatiable. I want more.
When he is fully, painfully hard again, rock solid in my mouth, I pull back. I stand, my body still humming, my cunt still dripping with our mingled juices.
“My turn to be in charge,” I whisper.
I turn around and climb onto his lap, straddling him, my back to his front.
I grip the edge of his massive, polished desk for leverage.
I look over my shoulder at him, a wicked, triumphant smile on my face.
Then, slowly, I lower myself onto his cock, taking him inch by torturous inch until he is buried deep inside me again.
He lets out a hoarse groan, his hands gripping my hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh. “Fuck, Olivia,” he breathes.
I begin to ride him, setting the pace, controlling the depth.
I move with a slow, grinding, deliberate rhythm, my eyes watching our reflection in the dark, mirrored glass of the window.
The sight of it—me on top, my ass moving against his groin, his hands possessively on my hips—is a filthy, powerful aphrodisiac.
He loves it. I can feel it in the way his hands tighten on me, in the rough, encouraging dirty talk he is whispering. “That's it, baby… ride me… show me how much you want it… Fucking own it.”
The pleasure is building again, a different kind this time. The feeling of being in control, of fucking him, is a heady, intoxicating power. I am close, so close to another orgasm.
But he is not a man to relinquish control for long.
Just as I am about to come, he surges up from the chair. He lifts me with him, my legs still wrapped around his waist, and in one powerful motion, he bends me over his desk. I gasp as my stomach hits the cool, hard wood. He is still deep inside me.
“My turn again,” he growls, his voice a low, rough command.
He begins to fuck me from behind, his rhythm savage, relentless.
His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging in, leaving what I know will be bruises.
He lifts one of my legs, hooking it over his arm, tilting my hips for an even deeper, more brutal angle.
He is fucking me over his desk, in the seat of his power, like a primal, conquering king.
His free hand moves between my legs, his fingers finding my clit.
He begins to rub, a hard, fast circle that perfectly matches the punishing rhythm of his thrusts.
“You like that, don’t you?” he grunts, his voice ragged.
“Like being my slut, bent over my desk, taking my cock while I play with your clit?”
“Yes,” I scream, my face pressed against the cool wood. “Yes!”
The combination is too much. The orgasm rips through me, a violent, all-consuming wave that makes me see stars. As I come, he comes, his own release a final, deep, convulsive surge that leaves me utterly, completely, beautifully wrecked.
We collapse, a tangled, sweaty heap of limbs, half on the desk, half on the floor. It takes several minutes for my breathing to return to normal, for the world to stop spinning.
I lift my head and look at him. He is watching me, a strange, soft expression on his face. It is a look of awe, of wonder.
“I’m hungry,” I say, my voice a satisfied, husky murmur.
“Are you now?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Yes,” I say. I trace a lazy finger over his chest. “I want that wild mushroom and truffle risotto you made the other night. The one you taught me how to stir.”
He doesn't say anything for a long moment. He just looks at me, really looks at me, with an intensity that makes my heart flutter. Then he leans in and gives me another kiss. It isn't the hungry, bruising kiss from before. It is a hard, deep, possessive kiss that is full of promises.
When he pulls back, he is smiling. He looks at me like I have just personally reached up and hung every star in the sky, just for him.
“Whatever you want, Olivia,” he says, his voice thick with an emotion I can't yet name. “Whatever you want.”