Chapter 35 Jillian #2
He bends me in half forward with one hand flat between my shoulder blades, pushing my chest toward the shelf until my cheek presses against cold metal. “I said, Louder,” he repeats. I can feel the thick head of him pressing against my entrance, but still not in where I need him so badly.
“Kir!”
He slides in to the hilt in one stroke.
He must’ve known how deranged of a sound I was about to emit, because just before it can explode out of me, Kir claps his hand over my mouth to muffle it.
“Shhh,” he coos, his hips pulling back for the second stroke.
“That’s it. That’s my girl.” He slams forward and I moan into his palm.
“You remember patience? Because I remember. I remember every word you said. You don’t get to rush this part. Remember that one?”
I nod frantically against his hand.
I lose track of what’s happening, lost in the blur of it all.
Long, dragging withdrawals followed by thrusts so deep I feel them at the base of my spine.
Each one rattles the shelf. Bottles clink.
Papery somethings brush my forearm, strips of hanging negatives swaying from a line strung overhead, ghosts of photographs that were never developed, images trapped in time while Kir Lazarev fucks me against the shelving unit they’re hanging from.
“Isn’t that what you said to me, little fox? While you were touching yourself? While you were soaking wet, spreading your legs for my camera?”
I whine behind his fingers.
“You wanted me to suffer.” His free hand grips my hip bone hard enough to bruise. “So now, you suffer.”
He pulls almost all the way out and holds himself there, just the tip inside me, while I squirm and push back and make pathetic, muffled noises against his palm.
“Ask,” he orders.
I shake my head.
“Ask.”
I clench my teeth and refuse.
He waits. The stillness is agonizing. I can feel my pulse throbbing where we’re connected as I clench around nothing. Wetness, my wetness, is dripping down the inside of my thigh. A full-body tremble rolls through me. The shelf digs into my hip bones. My calves are screaming.
Ten seconds pass. Fifteen. An eternity.
I break first.
“Please!” I gasp against his hand. “Please, please, please—”
He drives back in so hard the entire shelving unit jolts backward and smacks the wall with a metallic crash.
Kir abandons the slow game entirely and is fucking me with everything he’s got, one hand still sealed over my mouth, the other gripping my waist, his hips snapping against my ass in a rhythm that leaves no room for thought.
Then his hand leaves my waist and I feel his fingertip, slick with my juices, drag between my cheeks and press against a place nobody has ever touched.
My whole body locks up, not in fear but in shock, a full-voltage jolt of oh my God that whites out every rational thought I’ve ever had.
He doesn’t push in, though. It’s just the pad of his thumb, circling, testing, applying the barest pressure against that tight ring of muscle while he keeps driving into my pussy from behind.
The dual sensation is so overwhelming that my knees buckle and he has to catch me around the middle to keep me upright.
“Okay?” he murmurs against the back of my neck.
I nod so fast I almost give myself whiplash. The belt is digging into my throat while Kir claims a new part of me, and I feel like “orgasm” no longer properly describes what’s about to happen to me. We need a new word for what’s coming. The old things just won’t do anymore.
He eases just the tip of his finger past the resistance, maybe half an inch, and something inside me detonates.
I slam my hips back into him so hard he grunts, and then I’m grinding against him, chasing it, greedy, feral, completely beyond shame.
I’m making crazy sounds and his hand over my mouth is the only barrier between me and the entire newsroom hearing exactly what’s happening in this darkroom.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “There she is. She’s mine. And she knows it.”
With one finger in my ass, another dragging me onto the savage length of his cock, and his belt looped tight around my throat, there’s nothing about me that doesn’t belong to him.
He’s got all of it, and as long as we’re in the dark, I’m happy to give it up.
I feel lighter than air, untethered from everything that’s ever bothered me.
I’m free in the dark.
I’m me in the dark.
“You want to cum?” Kir murmurs, and the sudden tenderness in his voice after all this brutality nearly undoes me more than the rest of it combined.
I nod frantically.
“Then cum for me, Jillian. Not for the camera. Not even for yourself. For me.”
Boom.
I bite down on his hand to bury the scream, teeth sinking into skin, tears springing to my eyes. Kir is all that’s keeping me on my feet as he fucks me through it until he pulls out of me with a wet, mournful pop and finishes on the curve of my ass in thick, hot spurts of cum.
The darkroom is silent except for our breathing. Mine is shaky and thin, his deep and slow. Out in the world beyond, which does in fact still exist, contrary to my beliefs a couple of seconds ago, I can hear the faint burble of the newsroom.
Kir presses his lips to the back of my neck. It’s a kiss, I think, though it’s so soft and gentle that maybe it deserves a new name of its own.
He loosens the belt from my neck and slides it free. I lie facedown on the table; I need a little longer to recollect myself. Eventually, I peel myself off the sticky surface, pull my underwear up, and tug my skirt down. But I can still feel the stickiness he left on my butt.
As if he read my mind, Kir finds my hand in the dark and presses a swath of fabric into my palm.
It takes me a moment to realize it’s a folded silk handkerchief.
Monogrammed, probably, if I had to guess.
Shaking my head and laughing, I wipe myself off as best I can and shove the handkerchief into my pocket.
“I need to go back out there,” I say. “I’ve been gone too long.”
“Then you should go,” he agrees. “Before I lock the door and keep you in here forever.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
Still, as nice as that sounds, I go find the door handle and crack it open half an inch.
The corridor is empty, thank God. I slip out without looking back, pulling the door shut behind me.
My blouse is untucked on one side, my hair is a catastrophe, and I smell like sex and cinnamon and photo chemicals.
I have never been happier in my entire life.