Chapter 8 Sophia
Sophia
He doesn’t give much away aside from a ragged exhale that I suspect he’d rather suppress. The man is not a gusher, but I kind of love these unwilling breadcrumbs of his.
He leaves my thong hanging around my ankles. ‘Legs wider. Otherwise, don’t move a muscle.’
I do as he says, sliding my feet further apart until the stretched thong bites at my ankles.
It’s a basic, tawdry form of restraint, and it feels great.
Almost as great as being naked and bent over for a very powerful, fully dressed man who receives all his safety cues from his ability to control others.
‘That’s good,’ he acknowledges gruffly, and then I hear the tear of foil. The sneaky little shagger must have had a condom in his pocket the entire time that he was sitting across from me and grilling me. I fucking adore that he was planning on jumping on me before I even showed up.
‘Friendly reminder,’ I say, my cheek and tits and stomach still plastered to his desk, ‘but a lot rides on this for you. Pun intended. I really hope for your sake that you know how to use your dick well enough to compensate for your total lack of charm, because—oooh fuuuck.’
That last bit is unintentional but unavoidable, because he slides a couple of leisurely, entitled fingers between my legs, gliding over my clit and dragging backwards through my soaked flesh before pressing against my entrance lightly enough to be sheer torture.
‘Clearly there’s only one way to get you to shut the fuck up,’ he muses, and then he’s pulling his fingers away and replacing them with the wide, latex-covered head of his big fat dick, and pushing in.
No warning. No preamble. His three-second fingering provided him with, I assume, ample evidence that I was aroused as fuck, and now we’re off to the races.
I claw uselessly at the relentlessly smooth desk beneath me and brace myself as he grips one of my arse cheeks hard and guides himself in.
God, he really is big. Even without having had a peek at it, I can tell this is a lovely dick. I push back against him, taking him deeper, and all my flesh jiggles on the desk. He shunts forward, gaining a couple of inches, and we both groan.
My skin is already prickling with sweat.
I blame the unmitigated anticipation of getting a really good fucking from someone I don’t know from Adam, from a man who’s willing to pay an awful lot of money to have me at his beck and call every single weekday, although I’m slightly surprised he’s gone straight in.
This is supposed to be our chance to explore each other thoroughly, but he’s barely touched me with his non-dick body parts.
He pushes home and stills for a moment, his cock buried deep inside my body and his wool trousers ticklish against my thighs. ‘Fuck, yes,’ he hisses before dragging himself out in a smooth glide that has my nerve endings singing.
And we’re away, him quickly establishing a rhythm of vicious, feverish thrusts that light me up inside and me holding on for dear life as I take every glorious inch that he sees fit to give me.
I wish I could see him, wish I had a clear view of his face.
I’ve seen it work through a limited emotional range of dispassion, disapproval and hunger, but I haven’t seen it when he’s in the throes of getting exactly what he’s been craving.
But it’s hot, too, the relative anonymity of this age-old position, the privacy it affords him, at least. Being bent over his desk as he samples me, as he enjoys the spoils he’s paid through the nose for, is a thing of staggering pleasure.
And, because I have little visual stimulation aside from the view across the expanse of desk to palest grey linen-covered walls and black-and-white photographs of details from Kingsley’s hotels spanning the twentieth century, I’m afforded a richer appreciation of other sensory marvels: the harsh rasp of his breath as he fucks me in the angriest way; the bite of marble against the tops of my thighs as the force of his drives shunts me forward over and over; the impossibly good ache so deep inside my body each time he bottoms out.
The pleasure is growing, and I know it’s only partly physical, even if this man is conducting a masterclass in carnal pleasure.
The dynamic itself is just as arousing: his demand that we do this here and now; his arrogant entitlement; his conscious failure to provide me with any foreplay.
I’m not sure if it’s dismissive or presumptuous; I’m unclear whether he knows he can perform well enough to sell this job without any warmup or whether he simply doesn’t give a shit, because I’m here solely for his pleasure.
Honestly? Both are equally, obnoxiously, hot.
As he continues his barrage, my mind clears of thoughts and sensation takes over. I give myself over to the delirium of it, my consciousness shrinking to the truly excellent pounding he’s giving my pussy.
‘Fuck,’ he grits out. ‘So fucking good.’ His next thrust elicits a whimper of delight from me and a low groan from him.
He drags his hands roughly up my sides and wedges them underneath me so he can cup my boobs before extracting one hand and slamming it down on his desk in front of my face.
He’s rolled up his sleeves, it seems. The sight of his leanly muscular forearm flexing under the weight of his drives is a far more gratifying sight than a photo of an Art Deco cocktail bar, that’s for sure.
I bite down on my lip. Every exhale is a whimper now. It’s an effort, but I wrap my fingers around his wrist, and he grunts with what sounds like approval.
‘Harder.’ I dig my nails in.
‘Jesus.’
‘Please, Ethan. So good. Fuck me harder.’ I’m slurring now. My voice, even to my own ears, sounds pitiful, and I consider dimly that he should enjoy this. He should really fucking like watching me unravel beneath him. And he should absolutely get off on having me beg.
The sound he makes is positively anguished. He extricates his remaining hand from my boob and grabs my hip so hard I suspect he’ll leave bruises.
‘Told you I’d make it worth your while.’ He accompanies his I told you so with a savage thrust. ‘Told you you’d want to turn up and get railed every day. Fuck, this cunt is so greedy.’
‘You’re so fucking full of yourself,’ I gasp, because I’m close.
I’m so close that I’d be mortified at what a pushover I am if I wasn’t so intent on seeing this orgasm through.
Because he’s right. When it comes to sexual pleasure, I’m basically Veruca Salt, and I am this close to stamping my stiletto heel into his shoe to spur him on.
‘Enough.’ He wrenches his wrist out of my grasp. ‘Hands on the table.’
I comply, and in a turn I didn’t see coming, he pins me to the table by my wrists.
He’s leaning forward now, and his breath is warm on my jaw, my neck, as he rams into me over and over.
Fuck, he’s bossy, and fuck, he’s good at this, and fuck, backchat really gets him going.
No stilettos needed—verbal spurs work a treat, it seems.
There’s a real risk I drool on the table. I may spurt. It’s a swamp down there. I’m so intensely turned on, and my entire body is on fire, and having Ethan Kingsley unleashed on my pussy—and by my pussy—is a fucking riot, as it happens.
Bloody hell. I could put up with a lot of shit if he gave me this kind of treatment every—
Oh my god. Oh my god. My climax hits me like a fucking forklift truck, slamming through my body and obliterating absolutely everything that is not white-hot pleasure.
I splay out the fingers of my restrained hands and screw my eyes closed as I buck and buck beneath him, only vaguely aware of the unhinged shrieks that I think are coming from me.
But one sound does cut through the fog of ecstasy.
Ethan’s voice, shot through with the pain of a man on the precipice of losing all control.
‘Fuck—fuck—beautiful. Beautiful. Jesus Christ.’
He may have broken me, but it sounds like my greedy pussy and I have broken him, too.
It’s with a steady, desperate volley of thrusts that he fucks me through my orgasm before he vaults over the edge with a roar that’s defeated and triumphant in equal measure.
I soak it all up as I drift down from my high: him stilling inside me, impossibly huge, then rutting into me over and over.
Done, he collapses on top of me, his breathing harsh and ragged, and drags his lips along my shoulder.
No notes.
Not a single note.
That was flawless, and I don’t know whether to be smug as fuck or pissed off beyond all belief that he has the goods to back up the ego.
‘Don’t move,’ he grunts in my ear before hauling himself off me. ‘Just give me a second.’
There’s a sting as he withdraws—I’ve taken a major pounding, after all—and he disappears to dispose of the condom.
I assume that’s an ensuite back there. I lie where I am, boneless and sated and woozy.
Then he’s back, sliding my thong up my legs and over my bottom before putting his arms under me and hauling me up.
It’s very much a practical move, but his movements are gentle when he turns me around and props me against the desk.
He takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s already put his dick away, and there’s not a hair out of place. On his face is a self-satisfied smirk.
‘You were absolutely gagging for that, weren’t you?’
I narrow my eyes at him. I’m still almost naked, and I couldn’t give a shit.
Smug fuck. I mirror his position, crossing my arms below my most excellent boobs, a movement his eyes track.
I blow an errant piece of hair out of my eyes.
My legs are trembling from that earth-shattering orgasm, something I have no intention of disclosing to him.
Somebody needs to take this guy down a peg or two, and that someone is me.
I’ll be damned if I let him see just how much that magical dick of his affected me.
‘Look, dickhead,’ I say, hating that my voice still sounds Marilyn-Monroe-levels of post-orgasmic, ‘my last boss was sixty-five years old, so the bar is really fucking low.’ I glare at him. ‘Okay?’
That gets me my first proper smile of the day, and it’s far more dazzling than I’m comfortable with. Crinkled eyes. White teeth. Dammit. He’s indecently gorgeous, and it’s a disaster.
He looks pointedly at my traitorous nipples, standing proudly to attention, before dragging his eyes up to my face. ‘Whatever you say, sweetheart. So. When can you start?’