17. Lucy
17
Lucy
I close the remaining distance, rising slightly, and press my lips against his.
For a second, he freezes, surprised. Then a low groan rumbles in his chest, and his arms come around me, pulling me flush against his hard body. His kiss isn’t tentative or exploratory. It’s consuming. Demanding. A release of all the simmering tension that’s been crackling between us since that first meeting at the expo.
He tastes like expensive wine and controlled power, and I melt into him, my hands tangling in his perfectly styled hair, messing it up.
He deepens the kiss, one hand sliding down my back, pressing me impossibly closer, the other tilting my head to give him better access. My portfolio, the spreadsheets, the fate of Hammond & Co., it all fades away. There’s only this. Him. The overwhelming sensation of being wanted, desired, by this complicated, infuriating, surprisingly compelling man.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine. His eyes are dark, intense, his pupils dilated.
“Lucy,” he breathes, his voice rough.
Before I can respond, he takes control again. His hand slides from my back to the front of my blouse, his fingers brushing the curve of my breast through the thin silk. My breath hitches. He confidently backs me up against the edge of my sturdy oak desk, the cool wood pressing against my thighs. The move is pure dominance, claiming the space, claiming me .
He cages me in, one hand braced on the desk beside my hip, the other beginning a slow, deliberate exploration of the buttons on my blouse.
“Christopher…” I gasp, half protest, half plea. My office. The office of my dad’s company. This is insane.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips finding the sensitive skin of my neck. He nips gently, then soothes the spot with his tongue, sending shivers down my entire body. “Tell me that you want this, Lucy.”
Do I want this? My mind is still reeling, caught between panic and overwhelming arousal. But my body… my body is screaming yes. It arches instinctively towards his touch, craving more.
“No,” I tell him, the word shaky, uncertain.
“Liar.” His fingers work swiftly, expertly, unfastening the buttons of my blouse one by one. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps.
I’m too curvy. I’m not his type. He’s going to be turned off.
“So fucking hot,” he says.
Oh.
He pushes the fabric aside, revealing my plain beige bra underneath.
My insecurity flares again.
Oh god, why didn’t I wear the fancy black lace? Note to self: Always wear emergency hot lingerie when working late, just in case a billionaire comes over.
But Christopher’s gaze isn’t critical. It’s… appreciative. Possessive.
He completely removes my blouse and lets it drop.
Wait! I totally forgot to wear deodorant today! Shit!
I try to push him away, but he’s too strong.
He gives me a confused look.
“What is it?” he asks roughly.
“I—” I swallow. “My armpits...”
He frowns, then dips his head, giving my underarm a long whiff.
Nooooo! Not there!
How mortifying.
He groans. “You smell soooo fucking good.”
Oh.
Oh.
He gives my underarm a kiss, and you’d think I’d be ticklish, but instead it just feels... amazing.
It’s my turn to groan.
“You taste like salted caramel,” he says from the side of his mouth. “So sweet. So salty. I could taste you all day.”
He pulls back, and looks me over, licking his lips. His fingers brush against the cheap lace of my bra with deliberate pressure. He doesn’t fumble with the clasp. His large hand finds it easily at my back, unhooking it with practiced ease. The bra loosens, and he pushes the straps down my arms, baring my breasts to his gaze.
My cheeks burn, but I can’t look away from the heat in his eyes.
“Beautiful,” he rasps, his voice thick. He reaches out, cupping one breast, his thumb sweeping across my nipple. I gasp as it instantly beads, tightening into a hard peak. He mirrors the action on the other side, his gaze locked on my reaction. He seems fascinated by the effect he has on me.
He lowers his head, his lips closing over one nipple. The sensation is... I can’t even describe it. Erotic. Arousing. Worshipful. All rolled into one.
He suckles gently at first, then harder, tugging, teasing with his tongue while his fingers continue their ministrations on the other breast. Pleasure, sharp and insistent, coils low in my belly. My knees feel weak. I grip the edge of the desk for support, my head falling back, exposing my throat.
He lifts his head, his eyes blazing. He scoops me up effortlessly. Seriously, the man is strong . And carries me the few steps to the small, slightly worn leather sofa tucked in the corner of my office. He lays me down gently, his body immediately hovering over mine, pinning me with his weight and his intense gaze. The worn leather feels cool against my bare back.
“Tell me what you want, Lucy,” he commands, his voice a low rumble against my ear, his hand sliding down my stomach towards the waistband of my skirt.
I want this feeling to never stop. I want him to keep touching me like this forever. I want to forget everything except the way he makes me feel.
But the words won’t come out. I’m paralyzed by the intensity, by my own overwhelming response. I manage only a shaky breath, a silent plea.
He takes this as permission, because his fingers deftly unzipping my skirt and push it down, the fabric pooling around my ankles along with my discarded bra and blouse.
My panties are soaked. Utterly.
Mortifying. And also incredibly hot .
His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on the wet patch darkening the thin fabric. A possessive smirk touches his lips.
“Touch yourself for me,” he directs softly, his eyes locked on mine. “Show me how you like it.”
My breath catches. He wants me to…? Hesitantly, feeling incredibly exposed, my fingers tremble as they find my own clit through the damp fabric. I mimic the pressure, the circling motion I know works, all under his watchful, intense gaze. Heat floods my face, but the sight of his arousal, the hard ridge straining against his trousers as he watches me, fuels my own.
He lowers his head again, but this time his mouth travels lower, kissing a path down my stomach. He nudges my thighs apart with his powerful hands, then his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties and slide them down my legs. He tosses them aside.
Then his mouth is on me. His tongue flicks out, tasting me, learning me. I cry out, arching off the sofa. He groans, settling his head between my legs, his tongue becoming more insistent, circling, probing, suckling my clit with a devastating rhythm.
One hand snakes up to cup my breast, squeezing gently, while the other slides down, two fingers finding my slick entrance. He pushes inside me, stretching me, filling me with those big fingers.
Oh god.
He works them in a steady rhythm, mimicking the stroke of a cock, while his tongue continues its relentless assault on my clit. The pressure builds impossibly fast. It’s too much. Overwhelming. I’m unraveling under his expert touch, his complete control.
My hips buck against his hand, and his head, chasing the friction.
“Christopher… please…” I gasp, needing rele ase. He increases the pace, his fingers driving deeper, faster, his tongue hitting that perfect spot again and again until lights explode behind my eyes and I shatter.
“Christopher!” I scream, my body convulsing, my pussy clenching around his fingers.
He doesn’t stop immediately, continuing the steady pressure until the last tremor subsides, and rides out my orgasm with me.
Then he pulls back slightly, his mouth leaving my slick folds to capture mine in a deep, possessive kiss. I taste my release on his lips and it turns me on all over again.
He pulls away from the kiss, breathing heavily, his eyes dark with purpose. “You taste so fucking good.”
He reaches down, undoing his belt buckle with economical movements. The rasp of his zipper echoes in the suddenly quiet office.
He kicks off his shoes, then shucks off his trousers and briefs in one smooth motion. My eyes widen.
Oh. My. God.
He’s big. No, big is an understatement. He’s huge . Fully, magnificently hard, and all for me. The head is slick with pre-cum.
He kneels between my legs spread wide on the sofa, then he reaches in the pocket of his trousers on the floor and produces a condom. He rips it open, and slides it on. He gives my pussy one last, quick suck, and I squirm in pleasure.
Finally he release me and stands up again. He finds my gaze, holding it.
There’s no question who’s in charge here.
He picks up my wrist, bringing my fingers to his sheathed cock, closing my hand around his length. “Feel how much I want you, Lucy. ”
His cock pulses in my grasp. It’s hot, heavy, velvety steel. I squeeze tentatively, amazed by the sheer size and hardness. A low groan escapes him.
After a moment, he removes my hand and positions himself at my entrance, the blunt head nudging against my still sensitive, wet folds.
His grip tightens on my hips, fingertips branding my skin like a claim. The faint scent of his cologne mixes with the musk of sweat and arousal.
“Look into my eyes,” he demands, voice low.
My gaze snaps to his. Those icy blue eyes blaze, possessive and unyielding, as he sheathes himself fully inside me with a groan that rumbles through both our bodies.
Too much.
Not enough.
My nails bite into his biceps, muscles flexing beneath sweat-slick skin as he holds himself still, letting the unbearable, molten fullness unravel my insides.
“You take me so well,” he murmurs, thumb brushing my lower lip, and the praise coils heat low in my belly.
When he finally withdraws, it’s a sweet relief. Until he thrusts back in, deeper, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur.
“Christopher!” I cry out, but he swallows the sound with a kiss, teeth grazing my lip as his pace quickens.
The sofa creaks beneath us, leather sticking to my skin with every relentless push. His control fractures in the hitch of his breath, the way his hips stutter when I clench around him.
“Lucy,” he growls, my name a command and a plea. His hand tangles in my hair, tugging just enough to expose my throat, and his lips follow. Sucking, biting, marking.
I’m unraveling, every nerve alive, my legs trembling where they’re hooked around him.
“Please—” I don’t know what I’m begging for, but he does.
The shift is imperceptible at first. A tilt of his hips, a subtle recalibration, and then his next thrust sunders me. My head falls back as he drives upward, striking something that sends electric stars bursting behind my eyelids.
“There—God, there—” I rasp, voice fracturing.
He pins my wrists above my head, using the leverage to plunge even deeper. Every slam of his pelvis ignites liquid fire inside me, the rhythm relentless, incessant.
I try to speak, to beg, but my tongue feels molten. The world narrows to the slap of damp skin, the creak of overburdened leather, the raw scrape of his stubble against my collarbone as he growls, “Take it. Take all of me.”
His command unravels the last thread of my control.
I’m falling—
The room fractures.
My back arches violently as pleasure detonates, white-hot and incredible, wave after wave, as he pounds into me with a feral groan.
“Mine,” he snarls, the word reverberating in my bones as he buries himself to the hilt. His release triggers aftershocks that leave us both shuddering.
When he finally stills, forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged against my lips, I can still feel him everywhere. The ache between my thighs, the sting of his grip on my hips, the imprint of his teeth on my neck.
The city hums beyond the window, indifferent, but here, in this ruined office, the world feels remade.
After a long moment, long enough for the edges of the world to start creeping back in, he stirs. He pushes himself up, bracing his hands on either side of me. For a fraction of a second, looking down at me, his eyes hold something raw, something unguarded. Stripped bare by the intensity of his release.
Then it vanishes. Like a shutter slamming down. The impenetrable mask of Christopher Blackwell clicks back into place. His eyes turn cool, distant. Analytical, almost, as if assessing a completed task. The abrupt shift is jarring, like a splash of icy water.
The Executioner has returned.
Without a word, he rolls off me, the sudden absence of his heat leaving my skin feeling cold despite the lingering flush of sex.
He stands and begins to dress with swift, economical movements. Buttoning his shirt. Zipping his perfectly tailored trousers. Each action precise, detached. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge the shared intimacy of moments ago. It’s like flicking a switch. The dominant lover is gone, replaced entirely by the coolly efficient businessman.
I just lie there, on the worn leather sofa, suddenly feeling incredibly naked and exposed. My discarded clothes are tangled somewhere near my feet. The remnants of our passion are cooling on my skin. And he’s… just getting dressed. As if closing a file after a meeting.
Disbelief washes over me, quickly followed by a sharp, stinging confusion. What just happened? Was I just… stress release? A momentary lapse in his legendary control before normal operations resume?
My body still thrums with the aftershocks of his possession, but my mind reels from the sudden emotional disconnect. It feels like whiplash.
Watching him dress, his expression so utterly unreadable now, I realize I’ve crossed a line I can never uncross. But maybe not in the way I thought just minutes ago when tangled beneath him. This isn’t just about saving Hammond & Co. anymore. Not by a long shot.
My feelings are a chaotic mess, the lingering thrum of undeniable physical satisfaction warring with a rising tide of confusion, maybe even a prickle of humiliation. The terrifying surge of… something more… that I felt building now feels dangerously like naivety. Like falling for the oldest trick in the book, played by the most ruthless, emotionally unavailable man I know.
Well, Lucy, I think, pulling the edge of my discarded blouse over myself, feeling a chill that has nothing to do with the air conditioning, you really stepped in it this time.