Chapter 7 Talia #2
A sound rips from his chest, a low, primal growl.
This time, it's slow. He enters me with a deep, deliberate, thorough thrust that makes my vision go white.
He's filling me, stretching me. "That's it," he groans, his hands gripping my hips, holding me still.
"Take me. All of me." He doesn't slam. He…
glides. A long, slow, hypnotic rhythm. His hand comes up, his fingers lacing with mine on the desk.
Our knuckles are white, bone pressing against bone.
This is not a quick, desperate act. This is a…
a contract. A signing. He moves, deep and slow, and I move with him.
I'm not just being taken. I am… taking. I'm meeting his rhythm, my hips rolling back, drawing him in deeper.
He's watching us. I can feel his gaze on our joined bodies.
"Look at you," he whispers, his voice thick.
"So tight. So hot. Taking me… like you were made for it.
" He stills, to capture my gaze. "Let that sink in.
Never doubt it. You were fucking made for me. "
"I was," I gasp. Only after I acknowledge it, and I mean it, does he move again. Owning me with every stroke. My orgasm builds, slow and heavy, a deep, coiling tide. He feels it. He knows.
"Not yet," he commands. He pulls out, almost all the way.
I cry out, a sound of protest. He pushes back in, a single, deep, powerful thrust that hits my womb.
"Now, Talia," he roars. The world shatters.
My orgasm rips through me, my body convulsing around him, and he follows, his own release a hot, flooding, endless pulse.
He slumps against me, his chest on my back, his forehead resting between my shoulder blades, his body still joined to mine. We are both shaking.
We're still here at seven o'clock. He's on a call, and I'm…
I'm a mess. I've put myself back together, but my hair is a wreck, my body is thrumming, and my ass, my poor ass, is still tingling.
He hangs up the phone, the Pakhan firmly back in place.
He looks at me, his eyes softening. "I have one more meeting.
With the port authority. It will be late.
" He stands, walking over to me, and kisses my forehead.
"You have had a long day. Go home. Rest."
"Home?" I whisper. The word feels foreign.
He smiles, a small, tired, possessive smile. "Go upstairs, malen'kaya. Go to the penthouse. Rest."
"Okay," I say. I'm too tired, too… owned… to argue.
He goes back to his desk, all business. I walk out, my legs still trembling.
I gather my purse, leaving the mountain of packages.
I'll deal with that tomorrow. I get in his private elevator.
The doors close. "Go to the penthouse," he said.
And I… I can't. Not yet. I press the lobby button.
I need to… breathe. I need to feel like Talia again, just for a moment, not just this new, remade creature who is his.
I've been in his world, his penthouse, his office, for four straight days.
I'm suffocating. I need to go back to my apartment.
I need to water my plants, get my mail. I need to stand in my own space and…
think. Just for an hour. He's busy. He's in a meeting.
I'll be back. Of course I'll be back. But tonight… tonight I need to be me.
The elevator doors open to the lobby. It's empty.
I walk out, past the security desk, and into the cold, sharp night.
I don't take a car. I pull my collar tight and walk to the subway.
The train ride is a shock. The screech of the wheels on the tracks, the smell of stale pretzels and damp wool, the sheer number of people.
They are all in their own worlds, staring at their phones, wrapped in their own lives.
It's… normal. It's the world I lived in my entire life, until last Friday.
Who am I now? Am I the girl on this train, with her eviction notice probably waiting in her mailbox?
Or am I the woman who just had sex on a billionaire's desk?
The woman who screamed as he took her? I'm…
I'm both. And I don't know how to make them fit.
I know one thing. As I watch the city lights blur past the dirty window, I know it with a terrifying certainty.
I'm scared of his world. I'm scared of the man I just saw, the one who punished me and then worshipped me.
But I am so, so much more scared of going back to being the girl on the train.
I get to my building. The foyer is warm, but it smells like what it is. A rapidly aging building that is holding on to its dignity while time slowly strips it away. It's… my old life. I'm fumbling with my keys at the mailbox, the cold brass chilling my fingertips, when I hear the scraping sound.
"Well, well, well." My brows furrow when I turn around. "Look who it is. Miss… Too-Good-For-Everyone." Alex. I've only met him a few times. When I signed my personnel papers, at the office party, and then that final fiasco with the mistletoe.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, carefully and discreetly, weaving my keys through my knuckles. I doubt I'll need to use the old trick, but years of living on my own, protecting myself, have made me cautious.
He's slumped against the wall by the stairwell, a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka in his hand. He's not just drunk. He's… ruined. His eyes are bloodshot, his suit is wrinkled, and he smells… sour. "Alex," I say, when he doesn't answer. "Go home. You're drunk."
"Got no home," he slurs, pushing off the wall. "Or I won't soon. Not going to be able to stay in my apartment for long. Did you think about that? Did you wonder what would happen to me when you got me fired?"
"I didn't get you fired, Alex. Your behavior—"
"My behavior?" He laughs, a wet, ugly sound.
"My behavior? I was just… being nice. Just a little Christmas cheer.
" He takes a step. "But you… You're too good for that.
Too good for me. But not too good to spread your legs for the boss, are you?
My phone has been blowing up all day with messages from people who couldn't wait to tell me about you and the boss.
" His air quotes are as offensive as his words.
This was precisely what I dreaded—the scorn of wearing that scarlet letter that men never have to wear.
"That's enough," I say, my hand tightening on my keys. "Leave."
"The whole office is talking. 'The boss's new whore.' That's what they're calling you," he snarls, all humor gone. He's advancing on me.
"Get away from me," I say, backing up, but I'm against the mailboxes. There’s nowhere to go.
"You're a slut, Talia. Just a… a slut who sleeps down for a guy with money, but too good to even talk to a guy like me. I'm not even mad at you for taking your shot. Hell, why not take advantage while you can? But you fucked me over and left me with nothing."
"You did that to yourself, Alex. You knew the rules…"
"Fuck the rules, you bitch." He lunges. He's fast, his hand clamping down on my forearm, his fingers digging in like claws. "You're going to be nice to me now," he hisses, his face inches from mine, his breath a wave of hot, cheap vodka.
"Let me go," I scream, fighting back, my fist slamming keys out against his cheek.
I kick, my heel connecting with his shin, but he's too drunk to feel it.
He just tightens his grip, pulling me toward him.
"You're gonna pay for what you did…" He's yanking me toward the stairwell door.
Panic floods my veins. My throat closes.
I'm screaming, fighting, but he's bigger.
Shit. I have that life passes before my eyes moment. And all I can think is that if I die, it'll be without Anton by my side…
I should have stayed.