Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty Nine
Erica
As I sit on his lap, in the circle of his arms, still needy but losing hope, I’m reminded of how I used to view men like Nico Conti: as a threat to my sanity, a walking, talking, breathing complication I didn’t have the bandwidth for.
They were like a beautiful, wild animal you might admire from a distance but would never, ever try to pet.
I was so sure I knew what I wanted.
I was so sure I knew who I was.
A steady, predictable life. A nice, safe relationship. A career that paid the bills and didn't ask for my soul.
And then Nico Conti happened.
And my carefully constructed world shattered into a million pieces.
I'm not sure I want to go back.
Being with him is like standing in the middle of a hurricane. It's terrifying and exhilarating and dangerous, and it's the most alive I've ever felt.
He makes me question everything I thought I knew about myself.
He makes me want things I never knew I could want.
He makes me a better person, and a worse one, all at the same time.
I shiver lightly, now that we're not actually doing anything. The office has a chill to it that the warmth of my raging blood isn't chasing away.
His arms tighten around me.
"Cold?" he asks.
I nod.
He gathers me into his arms and kisses me. I taste myself on his lips, and it's dirty and wrong and hot, so damn hot. My knees go weak, and I moan. I feel him stand.
His strength is terrifying. He doesn't stumble. He doesn't strain. He just stands, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
He carries me across the room and to the door on the far side of the office. I know it's a private bathroom, but I've never actually seen it before.
He pushes the door open with his foot and carries me inside.
The bathroom is all marble and chrome and dark wood. It’s bigger than my kitchen.
"Can you stand?" he asks gently.
I nod, and he sets me on my feet.
My legs are a little shaky, but I manage.
I’m still a little stunned that he carried me, that he’s being… tender with me. After the way he just tortured me on his lap, the gentleness is a whiplash.
And I like it.
It’s another one of those contradictions about him that pulls me in.
He’s a predator, but he’s also a protector.
He’s demanding, but he’s also generous.
He’s the most dangerous man I’ve ever met, and he makes me feel safer than I’ve ever felt.
Slipping his hands under my skirt, he pulls my panties down in one quick move, making me gasp and clutch his shoulder for balance. The delicate lace is damp and ruined.
Nico looks up at me, and even kneeling on the floor, it's obvious who's in charge. He lifts them to his nose.
I blush.
He inhales deeply, a smirk on his lips.
He folds them carefully and slips them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
My heart does a little flip.
I'm not sure if it's from the act itself, or the fact that he's wearing a ridiculously expensive suit and has just tucked my ruined panties into his pocket like a souvenir.
"They're mine now." His voice is low and seductive, possessive.
The words arrow straight between my legs, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning loudly.
He wets a cloth in the sink and turns to me. "Hold still," he says, his voice soft.
He gently wipes the evidence of my arousal from between my thighs, and I moan, digging my nails into his arm while my hips buck.
"Feeling a little needy, are we?" he asks, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
"You're an evil, evil man," I breathe.
He smirks. "You have no idea."
When he's satisfied I'm clean, he tosses the cloth in the hamper and turns back to me. His gaze travels down my body, and I feel a fresh wave of heat wash over me. His eyes are dark, intense, full of a hunger that makes my stomach clench.
"Not that you're going to stay dry for long," he teases.
He pulls me into a hard kiss, his tongue delving into my mouth, demanding a response.
I give it to him, kissing him back with a matching intensity, my hands tangling in his hair, my body pressing against his.
He breaks the kiss, leaving me breathless.
"I think you've been teased enough for one morning," he says, his voice husky.
I blink at him, not quite sure I heard him correctly, hopes rising.
"You're… letting me come?" I ask, my voice a little breathless.
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that’s full of dark amusement.
"No," he says. "I'm letting you go back to your desk."
I stare at him, the words not quite processing. They bounce around in my head, nonsensical shapes that refuse to form a coherent thought.
"Go back to my desk?" I repeat, my voice thin and reedy. It doesn't even sound like my own. "You… you can't be serious."
He smooths my skirt down, his hands lingering on my hips for a second before he steps back completely. The sudden loss of his touch feels like a physical blow, a rush of cold air that leaves me shivering.
"Oh, but I am," he says, that infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. "Very serious. You're back at work, Ms. Crawford. And you need to get back to it.”
"But… but—" I sputter, my mind racing, trying to catch up. My body is a screaming, rioting mess of unfulfilled need. The ache between my legs is a constant, throbbing reminder of how close I was. How cruelly he's just denied me. "You can't just… leave me like this."
"Remember when we had that conversation, right at your kitchen table, about limits?
About what was okay and what wasn't?" He straightens his tie, which was already perfectly straight. The movement is casual, deliberate. It’s a power move, and it’s working.
"I gave you a full list, and you marked each one of them with a yes, no, or, maybe-but-let's-talk-about-it-first? We went over every single one."
"I…" I start, then trail off as I do, in fact, remember.
Next, he fixes his hair, which is tousled from my fingers.
"You said you wanted to try it," he says, his voice softer now, somehow more unsettling than the teasing from before. "Orgasm control. You said you were willing to try it for me."
He's right.
He takes a step closer, his expression softening just a fraction. His eyes hold a glint of something I can't quite read. It's not pity. It's not mockery. It's… something else. Something deeper. More profound.
I remember that conversation. I remember the way my hand trembled as I held the pen, the way my cheeks burned as I read the words on the page. Edging. Orgasm denial. It had all seemed so abstract, so clinical on the paper. So… sexy.
And now it's not abstract. It's real. It's this throbbing, desperate ache in my core. It's this shaking, trembling need that makes it hard to think straight.
"I'm trying it for you," I whisper, the words ragged. "I didn't think you would really... not let me. I didn't know you'd just leave me hanging."
"I'm not leaving you hanging," he says calmly. "I'm teaching you. You're learning that your pleasure is a gift from me. And you don't get to decide when you open it."
The words should make me angry. They should make me feel used, objectified.
Instead, they make a fresh wave of heat wash over me.
And, as predicted, I didn’t stay dry at all.
"For how long?" I whisper. "Until lunch? Until the end of the day?"
A devilish smile spreads across his face. "That, Erica, would be none of your business."
My jaw drops.
"Fix your hair, then get back to your desk. You’ve got a lot of work to catch up on. And remember, that means no touching either. At all. I have a call in a few minutes.”
He takes a final look in the mirror before turning and walking out of the bathroom, looking perfect as ever. While I stand there, mouth agape at his back, wet and needy, no panties, and hair a complete mess from his hand gripping it.
I am utterly, completely ruined.
And he just left me here.
My reflection in the mirror looks exactly how I feel.
Disheveled, flushed, dazed. My lips are swollen, my eyes are wide with shock and lingering arousal.
I run a shaky hand through my hair, trying to tame it into something resembling professional.
It’s a losing battle. I look like I’ve been thoroughly fucked.
Which, I suppose, I have. Just not in the traditional way.
The ache between my legs is a constant, throbbing presence, a reminder of the pleasure I was so cruelly denied. Every movement, every brush of fabric against my sensitive skin is a fresh torture.
I want to yank my skirt up and touch myself so badly. Just a little. Just to relieve some of the pressure.
I splash cold water on my wrists because somehow, miraculously, most of my makeup survived the encounter.
After digging around in the drawers, I find a brush and manage to tame my hair into something reasonable.
I take one last, shaky breath. I can do this.
I can go out there and sit at my desk and pretend like I'm not on fire, like my entire world hasn't just been tilted on its axis.
I can.
Maybe.
I take one step away from the sink and almost collapse on shaky legs.
Oh God. I can’t do this. How the hell am I going to do this? It’s like torture. I’m so hypersensitive to everything. Even my clothes are turning me on. How the hell am I going to get through the rest of the day like this?
A horrifying thought occurs to me. Maybe it won’t just be one day. What if he leaves me like this longer? Days? A whole week?
…More?
I steel my legs and force myself to move. I can’t let him know how much this is affecting me.
When I open the bathroom door, Nico's on the phone, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. He looks powerful, imposing, completely in control. The sunlight glints in his black hair, and for a moment, I'm struck by how handsome he is. Devastatingly.
My heart does a little flip, and I have to force myself to look away.
He doesn't even glance at me as I slip out of the bathroom and head for the door. The silence between us is thick with unspoken words, with the memory of what just happened, with the promise of what's still to come.
I pause at the door, my hand on the knob.
I want to say something. I want to protest, to beg, to demand. But I know it’s useless.
I’m not the one in charge here.
And as terrifying as that should be, there’s a part of me that finds it deeply, profoundly thrilling.
I walk out of the office, closing the door quietly behind me.
I sink into my chair, and the subtle shift of my body sends a fresh jolt of awareness through me.
I'm hyper-sensitive. The smooth leather of my chair feels rough against my bare skin. The seam of my skirt presses directly against my clit, a constant, maddening pressure that’s both a tease and a torment.
I cross my legs, trying to relieve some of the pressure. It only works a little.
I'm a mess.
I stare at my computer screen, but the words blur into meaningless shapes. I can't focus. I can't think. All I can think about is him.
His hands, his mouth, his voice.
The way he looked at me.
The way he made me feel.
The way he denied me.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I have to press my thighs together to stop the tremor.
God, what is he doing to me?
This is madness.
This is dangerous.
This is… the most alive I’ve ever felt.