Chapter 17 Calla #3
He unbuttons his jeans next, pushing them down his muscular thighs. The sight of him standing before me in just his boxers makes my mouth go dry. The outline of him strains against the fabric, and my body responds with a rush of heat between my legs.
"Scoot back," he orders, voice low.
I slide backward on the table as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my underwear, dragging them down my legs in one smooth motion. The cool air hits me where I'm already wet and waiting. His eyes darken as he looks at me, spread out before him like an offering.
"Fucking beautiful," he mutters again, almost to himself.
He drops to his knees in front of me, his broad shoulders pushing my thighs wider apart. My heart hammers against my ribs as his breath ghosts over my inner thigh. He looks up at me, holding my gaze as his fingers trace lightly along my center, barely touching, teasing.
I bite my lip to keep from begging, but he sees it anyway. The corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing smirk.
"Tell me what you want, Calla," he says roughly.
"I want your mouth on me," I whisper, my voice barely audible even in the quiet room. "Please."
He makes a sound low in his throat, almost a growl. "Louder. Tell me exactly what you want."
Heat floods my face, but the hunger in his eyes gives me courage. "I want you to taste me," I say, voice stronger now. "I want your tongue inside me."
"Good girl," he praises, and the words send a thrill through me.
His fingers part me first, thumbs spreading me open as he looks his fill. I resist the urge to squirm under his intense scrutiny. Then his mouth is on me, hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping through my folds in one long, deliberate stroke that makes my back arch off the table.
"Fuck," I gasp, one hand flying to his hair, gripping the strands between my fingers.
He hums against me; the vibration sends shocks of pleasure up my spine. His hands grip my thighs, keeping them spread wide as he works me with his mouth. Each stroke of his tongue is precise, deliberate—he hasn't forgotten a single thing that drives me crazy.
I gasp as waves of pleasure crash through me, my body arching off the table. His tongue keeps working, relentless, drawing out my climax until I'm trembling and incoherent. Just when I think I can't take any more, he rises to his feet, his hand immediately finding my throat.
"Look at me," he commands, fingers tightening just enough to make my pulse thunder against his palm.
I force my eyes open, meeting his dark gaze as he looms over me. His mouth is wet with me, his eyes wild with hunger. He slides two fingers inside me without warning, making me cry out from the oversensitivity.
"That's one," he growls, curling his fingers in a way that makes my vision blur. "But I'm not done with you yet. Give me another."
His grip on my throat tightens slightly as his fingers work inside me, thumb circling my clit with devastating precision. I'm still sensitive from the first orgasm; every touch is almost too much to bear.
"You're gonna come again for me," he demands, voice rough and dirty in my ear. "Gonna squeeze those pretty little muscles around my fingers until you're begging me to stop.”
"I—oh god—" I can barely form words as the pressure builds again, his fingers working magic inside me, his grip on my throat sending me spiraling toward the edge.
My thighs tremble, muscles tightening as another orgasm crashes through me, more intense than the first. I cry out his name, my body convulsing around his fingers.
"That's it," he growls, satisfaction dripping from his voice. "Fucking perfect."
Before I can catch my breath, he's pulling me up, spinning me around. "Hands on the table," he orders, his palm pressing between my shoulder blades until I'm bent over, palms flat against the cool surface.
Papers crinkle beneath my hands. The edge of the table digs into my hips as he kicks my feet apart, positioning me how he wants me. My heart hammers in anticipation.
"Look at you," he says, his voice dark honey and gravel. "Spread out for me like a fucking feast."
His hand slides up my spine, then tangles in my hair, pulling just enough to arch my back further.
I feel him pressing against me, hot and hard. My breath catches as he pushes inside in one smooth thrust, filling me completely. I grip the table harder, a moan tearing from my throat as he seats himself fully.
"Fuck, you're tight," he growls, his fingers digging into my hips. "Still fit me like you were made for this cock."
He pulls back slowly, then slams forward again, the force of it sending papers flying off the table. I cry out, my body already sensitive from his mouth and fingers.
"You like that?" His voice is rough against my ear as he establishes a punishing rhythm. "Like feeling me stretch this pretty pussy?"
"Yes," I gasp, pushing back against him. "God, yes."
He smacks my ass hard enough to sting, the sound echoing in the room. "Tell me how much you want it," he demands. "Let me hear those dirty thoughts you've been keeping locked up."
I hesitate, self-consciousness washing over me despite everything we've done. He slows his pace deliberately, making me whimper in frustration.
"Come on, Calla," he coaxes. "Tell me what you want." His lips brush against my ear. His voice drops an octave lower, turning into that sweet, gravelly rumble that makes my insides clench. "Tell me all the filthy things you've thought about while we were apart."
I swallow hard, my cheeks burning. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can." His hips slow to an agonizing pace, barely moving inside me. "Give me your words, Calla. I want to hear what that pretty mouth can say."
His hand slides around to cup my breast, thumb circling my nipple in a way that makes me gasp. "Five years," he reminds me. "Five years of fantasies. Tell me one."
The words stick in my throat, but his patience is dwindling. I feel it in the tension of his body, in the way his fingers tighten at my hip.
"I used to—" I start, then falter.
"Used to what?" His voice is silk and gravel, encouraging and demanding all at once.
I close my eyes, letting the sensation of him inside me override my embarrassment. "I used to imagine you taking me like this," I finally confess, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. "Hard and desperate. Somewhere we shouldn't. Somewhere anyone could walk in."
"Yeah?" His voice roughens, his pace quickening at my admission. "You like the risk? Like knowing someone could catch us?"
"God, yes," I moan as he hits deeper. "It's so hot when you lose control."
He growls against my ear, his rhythm growing more urgent, more primal. "I'm always in control with you, baby. Even when I'm losing my mind."
His hand slides from my hip to between my legs, finding me slick and swollen. His fingers circle my clit with devastating precision as he pounds into me from behind.
"You're so fucking wet," he groans. "So perfect for me."
The dual sensations are overwhelming—his thick length stretching me, his fingers working magic on my oversensitive flesh. Heat builds low in my belly, coiling tighter with each thrust.
"You're such a good girl," he rasps in my ear, his fingers working faster between my legs. "Taking my cock so well. Always knew how to take me, didn't you?"
His praise washes over me like liquid heat, making me clench around him. I'm so close to the edge again, my entire body trembling with need.
"That's it," he growls, his breath hot against my neck. "Feel how deep I am? No one's ever had you like this. No one ever will."
"Just you," I gasp, the words punched out of me with each powerful thrust. "Always you."
"My beautiful Calla Lily," he murmurs, his voice surprisingly tender despite the bruising grip of his hands. "My Calli."
The sound of that nickname breaks something open inside me. I come with a broken cry, my body convulsing around him as pleasure tears through me like a storm. My knees buckle, but his arm wraps around my waist, holding me steady as I shatter.
"Fuck…" he groans, his rhythm faltering as my muscles clench around him.
The world stays hushed in the stockroom, the table cool against my palms as the last echoes of our storm settle. Rook stays close, chest pressed to my back, his breath warm against the nape of my neck. He drags a slow hand along my arm, tracing the goosebumps rising on my skin until I shiver.
“Mine,” he murmurs, voice rough but quiet, the single word a promise and a plea.
I turn in his hold, meeting his eyes. He cups my jaw and pulls me into a kiss that’s nothing like the wild rush before—slow, grounding, a vow in the quiet.
For a heartbeat, it’s just the two of us, breathing in sync, the outside world shut out beyond the steel door.
Rook helps me put my shirt back on, his fingers lingering at my waist as if he isn’t quite ready to let go. We move in a slow, wordless rhythm—buttoning, tucking, breathing the same air.
When I finally look up, he’s already watching me. The heat in his eyes has softened to something steadier, something that feels like home.
“Hey,” he says quietly, brushing a thumb across my cheekbone. “You know you undo me, right?”
A small smile tugs at my mouth. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”
He leans in, forehead resting against mine. “I love you, Calla.”
“I love you too,” I whisper back.
For a long heartbeat, we stay there, the thrum of the clubhouse faint beyond the door, the world waiting. Then he straightens, fingers lacing through mine.
“Come on,” he says, a trace of a grin breaking through. “Let’s go face it together.”
I squeeze his hand, the weight of everything outside this room a little lighter. Whatever storm waits beyond the stockroom, we’ll meet it side by side.