Desmond
The conference had dragged on longer than I anticipated, a relentless parade of lectures on trauma protocols and the latest in surgical innovations.
As Mass Salem’s ER representative, people expected me to mingle, shake hands, and nod approvingly at every half-baked theory they threw my way.
My mind, though, had been elsewhere all day — split between the sterile hotel ballroom and the barrage of photos Anya had been sending me.
My secret little distraction, teasing me with glimpses of her skin, her fingers tracing the edge of her bra, a shot of her thighs parted just enough to make my cock twitch in my slacks. She'd been pushing boundaries, and now, after hours of that torment, I was ready to get some sort of relief.
Even if it was just with my fist and the shower.
I swiped the keycard and pushed open the door to my suite; the cool air of the room hit me like a balm after the stuffy auditorium.
The curtains were drawn back from the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city skyline, lights twinkling in the dusk.
I shrugged off my suit coat, tossing it over the arm of the chair by the desk, my fingers already working at the knot of my tie.
It loosened with a satisfying slide. My shirt felt too tight against my skin, the day's tension clinging to me like sweat.
I unbuttoned the top two buttons at my collar, rolling my sleeves to ease the stiffness.
That's when I saw her.
Lounging on the edge of the king-sized bed, legs crossed casually, wearing nothing but my white dress shirt from yesterday — the one I'd left in the laundry bag that morning.
It hung loose on her frame, the hem barely skimming her thighs, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the curve of her breasts and the shadow between her legs.
Her bright hair cascaded over one shoulder, and she met my gaze with that defiant spark in her eyes. Her lips curved in a smirk that screamed trouble as she swirled the wineglass in her hand.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” I growled, my voice low and edged with the anger I was cultivating.
Not genuine anger — not entirely. But she'd crossed a line. And after those pictures? Desire had been building in my gut all day, and she’d just given me the perfect outlet.
My pulse quickened, heat flooding my veins as I took her in, the way the shirt clung to her nipples, hardening under my stare.
Anya didn't flinch. She uncrossed her legs slowly, letting the shirt ride up an inch, exposing more of her smooth skin. “Missed you too much, Des,” she said, her tone playful, but I could see the anticipation in the way she shifted, her thighs pressing together.
I crossed the room in three strides, towering over her as she sat on the bed.
My hand shot out, fingers gripping her chin, tilting her face up to mine.
“You think this is a game? Sneaking in here like some desperate intern?” Her skin was warm under my thumb, and I felt her breath hitch, but I didn't soften. “How did you get into my room?”
“Turns out,” she breathed, her voice already raw, “all you have to do is claim you’re someone’s wife and flash a couple of selfies. It’s really easy, Doctor. They didn’t dare deny Mrs. Vaughn the chance to surprise her husband.”
My nostrils flared as I tried to hold on to my anger, tried to push down all the feelings that came with my last name in her mouth like that. “You've been teasing me all day with those photos. Distracting me while I'm supposed to be working. Now you're in my space, uninvited.”
Her eyes widened, a flicker of real nervousness mixing with the lust, but she didn't pull away. Good. She knew better.
I released her chin and stepped back, unbuckling my belt with deliberate slowness.
The leather whispered through the loops of my pants, and I doubled it over in my fist, the buckle glinting in the lamplight.
“Stand up,” I ordered, my voice brooking no argument.
She obeyed, sliding off the bed, the shirt fluttering around her hips.
I grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward the window, her bare feet padding softly on the carpet.
The glass was cool against her back as I pressed her there; the city sprawling out below us like a distant audience.
No one could see up this high, but the exposure made her squirm underneath my grasp; her hands coming up to brace against my chest. I pinned them above her head with one hand, my body crowding hers, the fabric of my shirt and pants a barrier that only heightened the friction.
“You want to play sneaky? Fine. But you don't get to make a sound. Not one.” I held up the belt; the leather was thick and worn from years of use.
“Bite down on this. And if I hear even a whimper, I'll stop. My colleagues are on either side of the walls, Anya. They had better not hear a peep from you.” Her lips parted, eyes locking on mine, and I shoved the belt between her teeth, the buckle resting against her cheek.
She clamped down, her jaw working to hold it, muffled breaths escaping through her nose.
Satisfied, I released her wrists, letting her hands fall to her sides.
She kept the belt in place, her chest rising and falling faster now.
My free hand went to my zipper, the metallic rasp loud in the quiet room.
I tugged it down, then reached inside, freeing my cock from the confines of my boxers.
It sprang out, already hard and thick from the sight of her, the head glistening with pre-cum.
I didn't bother undressing further — pants around my hips, shirt half-open at the collar, belt now her gag.
This was about control, about her feeling every inch of my authority while I stayed composed.
I pulled up the shirt, tossing it aside haphazardly, exposing her completely.
No panties, of course — already slick, swollen from whatever fantasies she'd been nursing while waiting.
I traced a finger along her slit, parting her, feeling her wetness coat my skin.
She bucked slightly, but bit harder on the belt, a soft leather-muffled hum escaping. Warning given.
“Shh,” I murmured, my voice a low rumble against her ear.
I circled her clit with my thumb, slow and light, just enough pressure to make her thighs tremble.
Her hands fisted at her sides, nails digging into her palms, but she didn't speak, didn't cry out.
“Good girl.” I dipped lower, sliding two fingers inside her, feeling her walls clench around me, hot and tight.
She was soaked, her body betraying how much she craved this punishment.
I pumped my fingers lazily. Her head fell back against the glass, eyes squeezing shut, the belt creaking under her bite.
I watched her face, the flush creeping up her neck, the way her breasts arched against my chest. But I kept it slow, drawing it out, withdrawing when her hips started to grind against my hand.
“Not yet,” I said, pulling my fingers free and bringing them to her lips, smearing her own juices just under her nose, above the belt.
She inhaled sharply, the scent of her arousal filling the space between us.
My cock throbbed, brushing against her thigh, leaving a trail of pre-cum on her skin.
I gripped her hip with one hand, turning to press her flush against the window, and notched the head of my dick at her entrance.
I pushed in inch by inch, savoring the stretch, the way her pussy gripped me like a vice. She was tight, always so fucking tight, and I felt every flutter, every pulse as I buried myself deeper. Halfway in, I paused, letting her adjust, letting the fullness build without mercy.
I leaned forward, lips hovering near her ear, “If it’s too much, you say ‘scalpel,’ understood?” She nodded as her eyes flew open, meeting mine over her shoulder, pleading silently. The belt muffled a whine, but it was too quiet to punish — yet.
Fully seated, my balls pressed against her ass, I held still.
Just breathing, feeling her inner muscles work around my length, trying to pull me deeper.
“You feel that?” I whispered, my lips brushing her neck.
“That's what you get for teasing me. For lying your way in here.” I pulled back almost all the way out, the drag slow and deliberate, her wetness coating me, then slammed back in — hard enough to make her body jolt against the window.
She gasped around the belt, teeth sinking deeper into the leather, but no sound escaped.
I set a punishing rhythm, but slow — each thrust measured, pulling out to the tip before driving forward again, bottoming out with a controlled force that made her toes curl against the carpet.
My hand on her hip dug in, bruising fingerprints into her skin, holding her steady as I fucked her against the glass.
The window fogged slightly where her breath hit it, her cheek pressed to the cool surface.
I leaned in, my chest covering her back through my shirt, the fabric rough against her bare skin.
One hand slid up to cup her breast, pinching her nipple between my fingers — twisting just enough to send a spark of pain-pleasure through her.
She arched, pushing back onto my cock, and I rewarded her with a deeper grind, circling my hips to rub against her walls.
But I didn't speed up. No, this was about drawing it out, making her feel every second of the discipline.
Sweat beaded on my forehead, my tie still loose around my neck, pants chafing my thighs as I moved.
Her pussy clenched rhythmically, chasing release, but I controlled it all — thrusting shallow now, teasing her entrance, then plunging deep.
A muffled moan vibrated the belt, louder this time, and I froze, buried to the hilt. “Ah, ah,” I warned, my voice gravelly. I pulled out completely, my cock slick and shining, bobbing in the air between us.