Anya
My heart hammered against my ribs as Desmond walked away, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd like he owned the damn room.
Which, in a way, he did — everyone here deferred to him, the esteemed attending doctor with his silver-streaked hair and that unshakeable calm.
But right now, all I could think about was how his breath had ghosted over my ear, promising things we both knew we shouldn't want.
I clutched my purse tighter, the sequins of my gown catching the chandelier light as I forced a smile for the donor I'd been chatting with.
“Thank you again,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
He nodded, oblivious, and wandered off toward the bar.
Good. No witnesses to the war raging inside me.
We'd done this dance twice before — stolen nights in his office after rounds, his hands pinning me to the desk while I gasped his name.
Both times, we'd sworn it was the last. “This can't happen again,” he'd murmur as he cleaned up, his eyes dark with regret.
And I'd nod, even as my body still hummed from him.
But here we were, at this glittering benefit dinner, tuxedos and gowns masking the hospital politics we navigated daily.
He was my superior, almost twice my age, and way too good at unraveling me.
The music pulsed, a slow jazz number that made the air feel thicker.
I scanned the room, spotting him across the way, deep in conversation with the chief of staff.
Our eyes met for a split second — neutral, professional.
But the heat in my core twisted sharper.
That hallway. Third door on the left. Ten minutes.
I shouldn't. God, I really shouldn't. But my feet moved anyway, carrying me toward the restrooms as if I were just freshening up.
The east wing was quieter, the hum of the party fading behind thick doors.
My heels clicked on the marble floor, echoing too loudly in the empty corridor.
I paused at the third door, hand hovering over the handle.
What if someone saw? What if this ruined everything?
Oh, fuck it. I turned the knob and slipped inside.
The room was dim, a storage space for linens and extra chairs, with the faint scent of starch and polished wood hanging in the air.
Desmond was there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his tuxedo shirt.
His eyes locked on mine, intense and unreadable; that commanding presence he'd wielded all evening still radiated off him like heat.
“You came,” he said, voice low, pushing off the wall with the grace of a lion stalking his prey.
“I must be insane,” I whispered, but I didn't back away as he closed the distance. His hand cupped my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip, pulling me into a kiss that started demanding but softened under my subtle pushback. I broke it first, stepping back just enough to make him follow.
Before I could process fully, he sank to his knees right there on the cool tile floor, his tailored pants stretching taut over his thighs.
His eyes never left mine, pleading. My breath hitched as he reached for the hem of my gown, but I caught his wrist, holding it firm.
No panties underneath — bold for the gala, but now it was my weapon.
I lifted the fabric just a tease, exposing the curve of my thigh to the air-conditioned chill, letting him glimpse the shadow between my legs.
His eyes darkened, pupils blowing wide as he stared up at me, that powerful frame reduced to kneeling at my feet.
His fingers twitched in my grip, aching to slide higher.
But those brown eyes — big, soft, and utterly pitiful — locked onto mine, shimmering with a worshipful gleam, like I was the sun and moon combined, the center of his universe.
“Desmond…” I murmured, trying to steady my voice into something commanding, but it came out huskier than I meant, my pulse already racing from the sight of him like this. God, he looked so vulnerable down there, and it sent a rush straight to my core.
He swallowed hard, his free hand bracing on my calf, but he didn't move without permission.
“Please,” he rasped, the word rough with need, his gaze never wavering from my face.
The man who'd orchestrated trauma rooms and bent wills to his all-night was unraveling, his breath coming faster as he pressed his forehead briefly against my knee, like a supplication.
“Please, let me.” Those wide eyes lifted again, pleading silently, full of raw adoration that made my thighs clench involuntarily.
I tilted my head, savoring the sight — him on his knees, older, experienced, yet utterly at my mercy.
But my heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat.
“Let you what?” I asked, aiming for steel but landing on a breathy edge, hiking the gown a fraction higher to torment him with the view.
Heat pooled between my legs, making it tough to keep my grip steady.
His gaze flicked up, locking on mine, a mix of hunger and frustration flashing across his face, but those eyes stayed huge and beseeching, like he couldn't bear a world without my approval.
“Touch you,” he begged, voice cracking low.
“God, please, let me touch you. Just your skin — your legs, you.
I've been dying for it all night. You're everything... please, I need to feel you under my hands.”
A shiver ran through me, his words hitting like sparks, and I bit my lip to hold back a whimper.
I was supposed to be the one in control here, but my body was screaming for more.
“N-not enough,” I stammered, my voice faltering as I tightened my hold on his wrist, pulling it away to watch him squirm.
“Beg like you mean it. Tell me why I should let a man like you anywhere near me.” The command wobbled, betraying how turned on I was, my free hand pressing against the door to steady myself as arousal throbbed insistently.
He groaned, the sound vibrating from deep in his chest, his cock straining visibly against his slacks as he shifted on his knees.
His free hand trembled as it hovered near my ankle, not daring to grip without leave.
Those pitiful eyes widened further, glistening now, staring up at me with such fervent longing it was like I held his entire soul in my palm.
“You're so beautiful, so smart... I can't stop thinking about you. Please let me touch you. Let me run my fingers over your slick cunt, feel how wet you are for me. I'll be gentle, or rough — whatever you want. Just say yes. I’m begging you.”
“Oh,” I gasped softly, the explicit plea making my knees weaken, slickness gathering as I imagined his hands on me.
I wanted to drag this out, make him earn it, but my resolve cracked under the weight of my desire.
“More,” I demanded, though it sounded more like a plea, my fingers loosening just a bit in his hair as I fought to keep the upper hand.
“Beg to taste me. Convince me you deserve it.” My breath came in shallow pants, the cool air teasing my exposed skin and heightening every sensation.
His breath hitched, a whimper escaping as those big eyes shimmered brighter, fixed on me like I was a goddess descended.
“Taste you? Oh, fuck, please let me taste you, Anya.
I want to lick you, suck on your clit until you scream.
Bury my tongue inside you, drink every drop.
You are perfection — I'd worship you forever if you'd let me.” His hand flexed by my thigh.
“Please, I'm on my knees for you, begging...
don't make me wait. I need it like air. Let me make you come with my mouth. Please...”
The pleas tumbled faster, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, hands now both hovering helplessly, his entire form quivering with the intensity of his need.
Those eyes, so wide and adoring, pleaded silently alongside his words, making the reversal burn hotter — he, the elder attending, reduced to this raw, moonstruck act of worship.
“Y-yes, God, keep going,” I whispered, my voice breaking as his desperation fueled my own fire, my hips shifting forward unconsciously.
I was trying so hard to stay composed, to wield this power, but the ache between my thighs was overwhelming, making my commands blur into encouragement.
The power surged through me, intoxicating, seeing this dominant man fracture so completely, but it left me dizzy with want.
Finally, I released his wrist, threading my fingers through his hair instead, guiding his head closer but still denying full access for one last tease. “Such a good boy for me,” I breathed, the words dripping with approval, though my tone trembled with anticipation. “Now show me.”
His mouth crashed forward at my permission, hot and insistent, lips parting to lick a slow, reverent stripe along my core.
I moaned low, the sound escaping before I could catch it, my back arching against the door.
“Desmond... yes,” I panted, my grip tightening in his hair as his tongue delved deeper, circling my clit with desperate precision.
His hands finally gripped my thighs, pulling me open wider, and I gasped, one hand flying to brace against the door while the other tangled deeper in his strands.
In an effortless motion, he threw a leg over his shoulder, widening my stance and inching himself forward.
He groaned against me; the vibration sending sparks up my spine, and I bit my lip to stifle a louder cry, the party noise distant but ever-present.
Anyone could walk by. But that risk only made it hotter, my body coiling tighter as he worked me over.
“Right there,” I whispered urgently, my resolve crumbling further, voice husky and needy despite my efforts to command. His tongue thrust inside me now, mimicking what his cock might do, while a finger joined, curling just right to hit that spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
He hummed in approval, adding a second finger, stretching me as he sucked harder on my clit.
The pressure built, relentless, until I was trembling, thighs quaking around his head.
“Don't stop... please,” I begged back, the irony hitting me even as pleasure overtook me, trying to dominate, now pleading in return.
But I couldn't help it; the heat was too intense, my control slipping with every thrust and lick.
“Come for me,” he commanded, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath fanning over my slickness, those eyes locking on mine again with that same worshipful hunger.
The words pushed me over, and I shattered, crying out softly as waves crashed through me, my pussy clenching around his fingers. “Oh, fuck,” I gasped, body shaking as he didn't stop, licking me through it, drawing out every pulse until I sagged against the door, boneless and spent.
Finally, he rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still holding that lingering worship, though now edged with smug satisfaction. He kissed me again, letting me taste myself on his lips — deep, possessive, but now with an undercurrent of my control.
My knees still trembled as Desmond straightened the hem of my gown, his fingers lingering on my thigh a moment too long, waiting for any further command. The taste of me on his lips when he kissed me made my pulse race all over again.
I should have been sated, floating on that high, but the hunger in his eyes — and the thrill of how I'd almost lost my grip — sparked something reckless in me. “Worth the trouble?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through my chest.