Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MORGAN
Monday should feel ordinary, but I know the moment I see her that it isn’t.
Constance sits at her desk as if nothing’s changed. Her posture is straight, hair’s pulled back neatly, and her hands move with familiar precision as she types. Efficient. Composed. Professional.
Too professional.
It irritates me more than open defiance ever would.
I expect hesitation. Some flicker of what passed between us over the weekend.
Instead, she gives me distance, restraint worn like armor.
She doesn’t look toward my office unless she has to.
When she speaks to me, her voice is steady and neutral.
When I pass her desk, her gaze doesn’t linger on me. But I know it’s forced.
She’s pretending.
That realization settles into my chest and stays there.
I make a point to focus on work. Contracts stack neatly on my desk. Meetings blur together, and when people speak, I answer on instinct alone, my attention drifting back to the quiet presence just outside my office.
She handles every request immediately. Every response is clipped, curt, and professional. No questions or hesitation.
It isn’t competence. It’s restraint.
I tell myself it should be enough, that she’s doing exactly what she should, that I need to leave it alone—leave her alone—but it lingers anyway, an itch beneath my skin I can’t quite reach no matter how hard I try.
Then she bends to retrieve something from her desk.
It’s nothing. A simple movement. A reach for a dropped folder or misplaced pen. I’m not watching her directly until I am.
The line of her back, the way her skirt pulls across her hips, the brief vulnerability in a moment she doesn’t realize is being seen.
Desire cuts through me sharp enough to steal the air from my lungs.
I grip the edge of my desk until the sensation leaves, jaw tightening as I force my gaze back to the document in front of me. This isn’t weakness…it’s temptation.
I don’t summon her immediately. I wait, testing my own restraint, pretending control is still something I’m choosing instead of something I’m about to lose.
It takes less than ten minutes to admit the truth.
I press the intercom. “Ms. Hale.”
“Yes, Mr. Creed?” Her voice comes through instantly, calm and composed.
“Cancel our meeting with legal and then come in here.”
She appears a minutes later, stepping into my office with the same careful distance she’s maintained all morning. Her hands are folded in front of her, and her gaze stays level.
“What do you need?” she asks.
There’s no edge to her tone. No softness either. Just honesty, stripped bare.
“Close the door,” I say.
She does.
The faint scent of her perfume fills my nose and almost distracts me. “You’re very good at pretending,” I say quietly.
“I’m doing my job,” she replies.
“You’re holding yourself together, and it looks painful,” I say, standing up.
Silence stretches between us.
She swallows. “What do you want?”
The question is simple and honest. But it strips away the last of my patience.
I lift my hand, still not touching her, letting anticipation do the work. “You already know what I want.”
Her breath shudders. She doesn’t step back.
I close the distance between us in one stride, my fingers finally grazing her jaw, tilting her face up to meet my gaze.
Her eyes are wide, pupils blown with that mix of fear and hunger that makes my cock twitch in my slacks.
Constance, my curvy little assistant, stands there in her proper pencil skirt and blouse, her full breasts heaving with each ragged inhale.
The office air thickens with the scent of her arousal, musky and sweet, cutting through the sterile leather of the furniture.
“On your knees,” I command, voice low and unyielding. “Take me out.”
She hesitates for a split second, then drops, her knees hitting the plush carpet with a soft thud. Her hands tremble as she reaches for my belt, fumbling with the buckle. I watch her, savoring the way her plump lips part, her tongue darting out to wet them.
She frees my cock, which is hard and throbbing, the veins pulsing under her gaze.
A low groan escapes me as she wraps her soft, warm hand around the base, stroking slowly.
Her breath fans over the tip, hot and teasing, before she leans in and takes me into her mouth.
Fuck, her mouth is a wet heaven—lips stretching around my girth, tongue swirling along the underside.
She sucks greedily, hollowing her cheeks, the obscene slurping sounds filling the room like a filthy symphony.
I thread my fingers through her hair, gripping tight, guiding her deeper.
She gags when I hit the back of her throat, tears pricking her eyes, but she doesn’t pull away.
No, my submissive slut pushes forward, taking more, her throat convulsing around me.
Saliva drips down her chin The sight of her like this, curvy perfection on her knees, worshipping my cock, drives me wild.
“That's it, choke on it,” I growl, thrusting shallowly into her mouth. Her muffled whimpers vibrate along my shaft, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my balls. I can smell her now, stronger, her pussy weeping through her panties.
But I need more. I yank her up by the hair, her lips popping off my cock with a wet smack.
She gasps, face flushed, mascara smudged.
“Over to the couch,” I order, nodding toward the sleek leather piece where I conduct all my meetings.
Where clients sit, oblivious. Soon, they'll sink into cushions soaked with her juices, inhaling the proof of her whorish cries.
Constance stumbles toward it, her skirt riding up her thick thighs.
I follow, shoving her forward until her hands brace on the armrest. I hike up her skirt, exposing her lacy thong, the fabric dark and damp.
Pushing it aside, I plunge two fingers into her slick heat.
She's drenched, pussy clenching around me like a vise.
A squelching sound echoes as I pump in and out, her juices coating my hand.
“Please,” she moans, ass pushing back against me.
I smack her ass hard, the crack resounding, leaving a red handprint on her pale flesh. “Beg properly.”
“Fuck me, Sir. Please,” her voice breaks.
I withdraw my fingers, slick with her essence, and smear them across her lips.
She licks them clean without hesitation, eyes locked on mine over her shoulder.
Positioning myself behind her, I rub my cockhead along her folds, teasing her clit until she whimpers.
Then, with one brutal thrust, I bury myself balls-deep inside her.
Her cry rips through my office—raw, needy—echoing off the walls.
I grip her wide hips, nails digging in, and start pounding.
The slap of my pelvis against her ass fills the air, rhythmic and punishing.
Her tits bounce with each impact, skirt bunched around her waist, exposing far more of her than she intended.
Sweat beads on her skin, the salty scent mingling with her arousal. I lean over her, biting her shoulder, tasting her. “You're mine now, Constance. This office, this couch…it's all tainted with your desperation.”
She sobs out yeses, her body quivering as I angle deeper, hitting that spot that makes her legs quake. But I want to see her break completely. Pulling out, I spin her around, her eyes glazed with lust. “Ride me. Show me how badly you need it.”
I drop onto the couch, legs spread, cock standing rigid and glistening with her cream.
She straddles me in reverse, facing away, her back to me—a perfect view of her round ass and the way her pussy lips stretch around me as she sinks down.
Slowly at first, she takes me in, inch by inch, her moan turning into a guttural groan when I'm fully sheathed.
The leather creaks under us as she starts to move, rising and falling, her thighs flexing with effort. I grab her ass cheeks, spreading them wide, watching my cock disappear into her dripping cunt. The sounds are filthy: wet smacks, her gasps turning to screams, the couch groaning in protest.
“Faster,” I demand, slapping her ass again.
She obeys, bouncing harder, her pussy fluttering around me.
The scent of sex permeates everything: her tangy juices, my sweat, the leather warming under our heat.
I reach around, pinching her clit, rolling it between my fingers until she keens, body convulsing.
“Come for me, my desperate whore,” I snarl, thrusting up to meet her. She shatters, pussy spasming, walls clamping down as she screams my name. The vise-like grip pulls me over the edge, I flood her with hot spurts of cum, groaning low, marking her deep inside.
When the rush fades, I guide her off me, turning her so she’s facing me instead of away. She folds into my chest without resistance, breath uneven, and her fingers curl into my shirt like she’s forgotten how to let go.
She lifts her head then, eyes searching mine. “Why?” she asks quietly. “Why do you like seeing me lose control?”
The question catches me off guard.
“Because it’s a privilege,” I say. “To be the one someone trusts enough to let go with. To see who they’re when they stop being guarded and in control.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “And the rest?”
“The rest,” I continue, “is that intimacy leaves marks. Not the kind you can see. The kind that matter.”
She studies my face, unsettled and curious in equal measure. “What do you mean?”
I lean in just enough that my words brush close to her ear. “I’ll show you later.”
Before she can respond, I slide a hand to her waist and guide her off my lap, setting her gently back on her feet. I rise a second later, putting a bit of space between us, straightening my shirt like nothing just happened.
“Go back to work,” I say calmly.