2. nova #3
He doesn't tease. His fingers slide through my slick folds, finding my entrance, pushing inside with a deliberate slowness that makes my knees buckle. I grab his shoulder to stay upright, my nails digging into his skin through the shirt.
"More," I demand.
He adds another finger, curling them, and his thumb finds my clit—pressing in tight, devastating circles.
My head falls back against the door. The wood is hard and unyielding, and I don't care.
I grind against his hand, chasing the pressure, chasing the release that's already building at the base of my spine.
"Look at me," he says.
I force my eyes open. His face is inches from mine—flushed, pupils blown wide, that careful composure shattered into something raw and hungry. He looks ruined. He looks like I ruined him.
"Say my name," he demands.
"Romeo."
He groans, and his fingers fuck me harder—wet, obscene sounds filling the cramped office.
The heel of his palm grinds against my clit with every thrust, and the orgasm hits me like a freight train.
My body seizes, cunt clenching around his fingers, and I bite down on his shoulder to muffle the scream that tears out of me.
He doesn't stop. He works me through it, fingers still moving, still stretching, until I'm trembling and oversensitive and gasping for air.
Then he pulls his hand free, and before I can protest, he's undoing his belt. The clink of the buckle is obscenely loud. He shoves his pants down just enough, lifts me against the door, and I wrap my legs around his waist on instinct.
He pauses. One heartbeat. Two. His cock nudges my entrance, slick and thick, and his forehead presses against mine.
"Tell me you want this."
"I want this."
He thrusts inside.
The stretch is brutal. Perfect. I'm still coming down from the first orgasm, and the invasion sends sparks skittering across my vision. My hands clutch his shoulders, my nails leaving crescents in his skin.
"Fuck," he chokes out. "You're so tight."
He doesn't wait for me to adjust. He can't. His hips snap forward, driving into me with a desperate, relentless rhythm that has the door rattling in its frame. Each thrust punches the air from my lungs. Each retreat leaves me empty and aching for more.
I meet him stroke for stroke, rolling my hips, chasing the angle that makes white explode behind my eyes. The wet slap of skin against skin mingles with our ragged breathing and the distant throb of bass from the club.
"Harder," I gasp.
His grip on my hips tightens—bruising, possessive. He slams into me, and the sound I make isn't human anymore. It's pure need, torn from somewhere deep and primal.
"Mine," he growls against my throat. "You're mine now."
I should argue. I should remind him that this is a transaction, an arrangement, a contract with clauses and conditions.
Instead, I sink my teeth into his neck and whisper, "Yours."
He comes with a groan that sounds like my name, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside me. The warmth of his release triggers something, and I'm falling again—clenching around him, shaking, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes from the intensity of it.
We stay there, pinned against the door, his forehead pressed to my shoulder. His breath comes in harsh, uneven bursts against my skin. My legs tremble around his waist. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, indifferent to the wreckage below.
He pulls back first. His eyes find mine, and for a moment, the mask is gone. No charm. No deflection. Just a man who looks as terrified as I feel.
I should say something clinical. Something that reestablishes the terms.
"That was—" I start.
"Yeah."
We don't finish the sentence. There's nothing to say that either of us is ready to hear.
I get dressed in the silence that follows.
He is leaning against the desk. Shirt untucked.
Collar ruined. His hair wrecked from my hands and his breathing still ragged and he is watching me with an expression I cannot read — something between hunger and horror, like he just discovered a door inside himself he did not know existed and he cannot figure out how to close it.
I do not look at him while I dress. I find my bag where it fell by the chair. I pull the strap over my shoulder. I touch my mouth with the back of my hand and my lips are swollen and raw and I can still taste him — whiskey and salt and something dark underneath.
My hands are shaking.
I shove them into my pockets before he sees.
At the door I stop. One hand on the knob. I do not turn around because if I turn around he will see my face and my face will betray every word I am about to say.
"This doesn't change anything."
My voice holds. Barely.
I walk out. Down the hallway. Through the service entrance. Into the night air that hits my skin like cold water and I keep walking, one foot in front of the other, all the way to the bus stop on the corner.
I sit on the bench. The city moves around me. My hands are still trembling in my pockets.
Not from cold.