Chapter 15
Amara
Two days into this extended pilot program and I’m about ready to lose my mind.
Not because of the work. The work is fine. Great, even. We’ve helped three more families, and the local newspaper ran a follow-up piece praising the clinic’s community impact.
No, the problem is Corin.
Or rather, my reaction to him.
Specifically, the way my eyes keep sticking to that pale scar above his left eyebrow when he’s scowling at a contract, that jagged little bolt I’ve traced with my tongue.
The way his throat moves when he swallows his coffee, those thick tendons flexing against his sun-darkened skin, and the salt-sweet flavor of the sweat I tasted there not long ago.
Then there are those stupid linen shirts, clinging to him when the humidity rises, plastering themselves to the hard planes of his shoulders and back that I’ve held so close. When that happens, I can see every defined ridge of his muscles, every shift of power as he leans over the desk, teasing me.
Or the way he looks after he’s rolled up his sleeves.
Christ. It’s not just forearms, it’s veins mapping strength beneath taut skin, corded muscle flexing as he writes, and god I remember exactly how those arms caged me.
And those hands, with the long, ruthless fingers that I’m supposed to pretend didn’t drag up my dress while his mouth scorched a path down my pussy?
Anyway, you get the picture.
It’s not maddening.
It’s torture.
So yeah, it’s day two. Nine thirty at night.
We’re still here, supposedly finishing up paperwork for tomorrow’s workshop. In reality, I think we’re both avoiding going back to our respective villas because the second we’re alone in separate spaces, we’ll have to acknowledge that this whole “strictly professional” thing is a joke.
A very bad one.
I’m staring at a land-lease clause for the fifth time when I realize I haven’t actually read a single word.
“You’re not reading that,” Corin says suddenly.
I glance up. He’s watching me from across the desk, his dark eyes unreadable. His linen shirt is open one extra button. As usual trying to kill me.
“Sure I am,” I lie.
“You’ve been on the same paragraph for ten minutes.”
Busted.
I set down my black gel pen. “Fine. I’m distracted.”
“By what?”
By you, you infuriating man.
“You know what I finally figured out?” I tell him.
He arches an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Four weeks ago, after you had me bent over that desk in your study, you gave me the whole ‘we can’t do this again’ speech. Professional boundaries. You’re my boss. All very noble. And I actually respected that, Corin. I did. Agreed we’d reassess after the program ended. Four weeks. A finish line.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I see the slight tension in his shoulders.
“Except then,” I continue, “on what was supposed to be my last day... like literally hours before I was no longer going to be your employee... you go and extend the contract. Hire me for another week.”
“The clinic needed—”
“The clinic was fine.” I cut him off. “And sure, I get it, you didn’t want me to go back to Manhattan.
You didn’t want us to end on bad terms after the argument we had that night.
And I get it. Because I recognize I’m at fault, too.
Because I was ready to run back to Manhattan after that argument.
That’s one of my problems, isn’t it? I always run when things start to get bad.
So I get it. Your extension was partly an olive branch.
Something I could grab onto. An excuse to stay.
“But... you know what I think was really going on in that head of yours, other than the olive branch? I think you couldn’t make up your mind.
You wanted me here, helping with the legal work, being useful.
But the second we had that fight and I pushed back about you trying to protect me from Xavier’s mess, you panicked.
Because suddenly I wasn’t just the convenient employee you could keep at arm’s length.
I was someone who wanted all of you, including the messy, dangerous parts. ”
He’s very still now, watching me with those dark eyes.
“So what did you do?” I smile wistfully.
“You hired me again. Kept me close, but on your terms. A week. A measly week. I could help with the clinic, sure. But the foundation problems? The real threat? No, you’d handle that alone.
Push me away from anything that might actually make me a partner instead of just..
. what, a consultant you happen to sleep with? ”
He seems visibly shocked at the suggestion, but I lean forward and keep talking, letting my frustration build.
“That’s what you do, Corin. You want the best parts of intimacy.
The sex, the company, someone to share things with.
But the second things get real, the second there’s actual risk or vulnerability involved, you shut down.
You make unilateral decisions about what I can handle, what I’m allowed to be part of. ”
The air in the room has gone dangerously still.
“It’s all control,” I say quietly. “You control when we can be together by moving the goalposts. You control how involved I’m allowed to be by deciding which problems are ‘too dangerous’ for me.
You control what parts of yourself you’ll share.
I’ve never seen you cry, rarely see you laugh.
You won’t let yourself be vulnerable, won’t let me see you as anything other than perfectly composed.
The only time you actually let go is when you’re fucking, and even that feels like you’re trying to burn off feelings you won’t let yourself have any other way. ”
His jaw tightens.
Good. I want a reaction.
There’s something dark flickering in his eyes now. Something that might be anger, or something else entirely.
“You don’t want to see me lose control,” he says quietly.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms, meeting that dark stare head-on. “Maybe I do.”
It’s a dare.
We both know it.
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then he stands slowly, deliberately, and walks around the desk.
My pulse quickens.
He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
His hand hovers at the small of my back. Barely touching.
“If you want me to lose control,” he says quietly, “really lose it. I need to know you can handle it. Can you?”
My pulse is literally racing now. I can feel my cheeks flushing with heat.
What’s he going to do?
“What... what are you asking?” I manage.
“Permission to push. To take. To show you what I was thinking about doing to you back when we used to be together, but was too afraid to.”
Oh.
Oh.
When we were together five years ago, it was intense, yes, but he’d always been careful. Almost too careful, like he was afraid of breaking something.
This new version of Corin, scarred by exile, and guilt, is freer somehow.
Rawer.
I reach up, find his hand, squeeze three times. Our signal. “Show me.”
His hand slides from the small of my back to grip my hip, yanking me up from the chair with a single rough pull. Before my brain catches up, he spins me hard against the steel desk.
My palms slap the icy surface, my fingers splaying, my knuckles whitening as he bends me forward.
The desk edge bites into my thighs, and my skirt rasps upward, baring me to the chilled air.
“We shouldn’t—” I whisper uselessly. Heat floods my core, molten and slick.
“No one’s here.” His voice scrapes like gravel, but still he tears away to slam the lock closed. The click echoes like a gunshot.
When he returns, his palm glides up my thigh, deliberate and slow, hiking my skirt to my waist.
Cool air hits my exposed ass.
“Five years pretending I didn’t fantasize about this,” he says. “About bending you over my desk, hearing you beg.”
I gasp as his hand connects with my right cheek in a loud crack! Not quite pain, but I definitely feel fire bloom under his touch, which radiates deep into my cunt.
Clench. Drip.
“Is this what you craved?” He lands another blow, sharper, on the left. My hips jerk back, greedy for more. “Wanted me feral? Unleashed?”
“Yes,” I choke, my voice raw.
Liquid heat slicks my inner thighs.
Thwack! A mirror sting on the other cheek. I arch shamelessly, offering myself.
Thwap-thwap-thwap! Three rapid strikes lower, where my ass curves into my thighs. Each impact vibrates straight to my clit.
Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.
“Corin—!” His name shatters from me as twin blows hammer where I sit. My knees buckle; my cunt weeps, soaking the cotton.
“Do you like it?” His knuckles graze my dripping seam through the panties. I whimper.
Drenched.
“Answer.” A slap lands where my thigh meets my ass—
Stinging, perfect.
It makes my pussy flutter.
“Yesss!” I hiss, rocking back.
Two more. Left cheek. Right.
The next is an open-palmed SMACK that echoes.
My inner muscles clamp hard, aching, empty.
Wetness spreads across my panties.
“Count.” His command vibrates against my spine.
I don’t know what number. I—
“We’re on fourteen,” he explains.
“F-f-fourteen,” I pant.
Crack!
“Fifteen!” His palm brands me.
Smack!
“S-sixteen—” I sob, pushing back, needing the burn, the fullness, his cock.
He fists the soaked lace of my panties.
His thumbs spread my cheeks, exposing the glistening slit beneath my panties.
“Look at you.” A low groan tears from him. “Soaked. Swollen. Dripping for me.”
The eighteenth lands right on my swollen pussy lips through fabric. It’s gentle, but...
“Oh fuck!” I scream, back bowing.
Nineteen and twenty hammer my cheeks again. The skin burns and my hips writhe.
Need. Need. Need.
CRACK!
Twenty-one.
“MINE!” he exclaims.
Then... stillness. His rough palm soothes the fire, kneading my scorched flesh. His fingers slide into my panties, and through my soaked folds. My scent, musky and primal, fills my nostrils.
“Still dripping,” he rasps. Two fingers plunge deep, curling inside me.
My inner walls clutch him instantly.