Chapter 48 Rae
RAE
LAZAREV GLOBAL — EXECUTIVE CAR SERVICE
Driver: Dmitri K.
VEHICLE CONDITION: Interior requires detailing.
On your knees. On the floor.
The space between the seats and the partition is maybe two feet wide, if that. I look down at the textured rubber mat, then back up at Lukas.
His face hasn’t changed. Once again, he is not joking.
My heart thumps against my ribs so hard I’m surprised the windows aren’t rattling. Every rational thought I’ve ever had is screaming at me to tell him to go fuck himself. I’m his employee, for crying out loud, and this is wildly, spectacularly inappropriate.
But I know better than to disobey by now.
I slide forward off the leather seat, my dress riding up my thighs as I maneuver into the cramped space. The fabric catches, bunches, and exposes far more skin than is decent. I don’t fix it. Why bother? There hasn’t been anything decent between us in a long time now.
My knees hit the mat with a dull thud that I feel all the way up my spine. My shoulders wedge between Lukas’s spread knees as the seat edge digs into my shoulder blades. When the car takes a turn, I have to brace one hand on his thigh just to keep from toppling sideways.
The muscle beneath my palm is solid. I can feel the heat of him through the fine fabric of his trousers. My other hand hovers uselessly in the air, unsure where to go or what to do.
I’m trapped down here in this tiny space with him towering above me, and the power dynamic has never been more literal. The crown of my head barely reaches his chest from this angle. His thighs bracket my shoulders like the walls of a cage.
When I’m in position, I look up at him.
I have to tilt my head back to see his face. I find him watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes. The streetlights catch the white in his hair, the thick silver of his beard. He looks like a wolf in Brioni.
He looks like a villain from a wet dream. No, a wet nightmare. Is that a thing? It is now.
He’s old. That’s the thing I can’t stop noticing from down here. The lines around his eyes, the weathered hands with their network of pale scars, the gray threading through everything. He’s lived entire lifetimes I’ll never know about. Made fortunes. Buried secrets. Buried people.
And I’m less than half his age, on my knees in the back of his Maybach, wearing nothing under my dress simply because he told me to take it off.
Everything about him screams money. Power. Experience.
Everything about me screams, What are you doing down there?
I get my answer when his chin dips. A single, almost imperceptible nod toward his lap.
The instruction is clear.
My hands shake as I reach for his belt. The leather is butter-soft, the buckle cool against my fumbling fingers. I work it loose with the coordination of someone who’s never operated basic hardware before, then move to his zipper.
I reach inside. My fingers brush hot, hard flesh through silk boxers, and I hear his breath catch—just the tiniest bit, but enough to know I’m affecting him. It’s an intoxicating feeling.
Then I pull him free.
He springs out… and hits me square in the face.
I jerk back on instinct, my cheek stinging from the impact, and find myself staring at—
Oh.
My.
Lord.
He’s huge. I knew that already, since I felt it pressed against me in the grotto, grinding into my hip while he pinned me to that olive tree. But seeing him like this, flushed and rigid, curved slightly upward like it’s straining toward me, is something else entirely.
A bead of pre-cum wells at the slit, threatening to spill over. I watch it, mesmerized.
I could’ve probably sat there for hours, watching it, and maybe I would have—if Lukas’s hand hadn’t slid into my hair.
His fingers thread through slowly until he has a firm grip at the base of my skull. He doesn’t have to yank to remind me of exactly who’s in control here.
With the slightest pressure, he guides me forward.
I let him press the head of his cock against my closed lips. The taste hits me immediately—salt and musk. My eyes flutter closed.
“Stick out your tongue,” he says.
I obey without thinking and, going by pure instinct, flicking the tip against his slit, lapping up that bead of pre-cum like I’ve been waiting my whole life to do exactly that.
His thigh tenses at once beneath my braced hand. It feels so addictively good to affect him like this. He’s ice all the time, twenty-four-seven—but when I put my mouth on him, he crumbles.
“Good girl.”
The praise sends a bolt of heat straight between my legs, to that empty, aching place where my underwear used to be. I squirm on my knees, desperate for friction I’m not going to get.
But if he won’t touch me, I’ll earn more of his praise. That’s almost as good.
I hollow my cheeks and take him a little deeper. Just the head. My lips have to stretch around his girth, and I feel the corners of my mouth strain to accommodate him.
He pushes deeper, and I have to open wider. My jaw is already starting to ache from the effort, but we’re a long way from finished.
Another inch. Then another. My lips burn. I can feel every ridge and vein, the heat of him against my tongue.
I try to breathe through my nose and relax my throat the way I’ve read about in romance novels, but truth be told, I’m struggling.
He’s only halfway in and I already feel too full, like there’s no room for anything else—not air, not thought, nothing but him. My fingers dig into his thigh and I whimper.
I’m mortified to show my inexperience—until something happens: Lukas’s other hand comes up to cup my cheek.
His thumb brushes away a tear that’s escaped down my face. The gesture is almost tender, if a man like him is even capable of a thing like that. It’s as if he’s acknowledging the difficulty of what he’s asking and appreciating the effort I’m making to please him.
Then he pushes deeper still.
A small, involuntary sound escapes me, half-gag, half-moan. My throat spasms, trying to adjust and accept what feels biologically impossible.
I’m stuck. I cannot do any more. There’s no way, no how; it just isn’t happening.
The whole moment feels like that, actually. It’s not just my throat that’s lingering on a precipice—it’s him, it’s me, it’s this car, this night, all of us. We can’t go any farther. We shouldn’t. It’s a very bad idea.
… Until, with a grunt, Lukas bashes right through that glass ceiling.
His grip in my hair tightens to the point of pain, fingers twisting, pulling, and suddenly, the careful exploration is over. His hips shift forward on the seat.
He’s not letting me set the pace anymore.
He’s taking over.
His hand moves my head back, then forward, back, then forward, setting a pace that has nothing to do with what I can handle and everything to do with what he needs.
He’s fucking my mouth.
My hands fly up to hold onto his thighs as I try to anchor myself against the onslaught. Saliva pools at the corners of my mouth, fresh tears shine on my cheeks, both spilling over, dripping down my chin in warm rivulets.
I should be mortified. Why am I not stopping him? I’m a person and not just a warm, willing hole for him to use!
But how can I do that, when I’m so turned on I can hardly think straight? It’s all I can do to moan around him like the absolute disaster I am.
The ice king melts when you submit to him.
Who knew?
The next thrust hits the back of my throat and my body rebels. I gag, hard and violent, my entire torso convulsing with the instinctive need to reject. My hands push against his thighs to create distance. His penis is so big that it feels like it’s splitting me open from the inside.
But his hand holds me in place. “You can do it,” he says. “Breathe through your nose.”
My throat spasms around him, muscles clenching and releasing in waves I can’t control. More tears stream down my face, hot and humiliating, mixing with the saliva already coating my chin. But I force myself to go limp, to surrender, to let him have this.
He pushes deeper.
I feel him slide past that barrier as my throat stretches to accommodate something it was never designed to take. The sensation is overwhelming: fullness and pressure and the burning need for air clawing at my lungs.
This is what he meant.
Lukas told me that he and he alone could see the secret part of me that wants someone else to do the taking. I thought he was full of it. Of course he was, right? He was a sick control freak, projecting his own twisted desires onto me, seeing what he wanted to see.
But as it turns out, he wasn’t wrong.
Because right now, with my jaw aching and my throat burning and tears streaming down my face, I feel more powerful than I ever have in my life.
It doesn’t make sense. I’m on my knees in the back of a car, being used like a thing for someone else’s pleasure. There’s nothing powerful about that. Nothing feminist or empowering or any of those modern day buzzwords I’m supposed to care about.
And yet.
Every time he pushes deeper, every time my body yields to make room for him, I feel my burden lighten. Thrust by thrust, I let go.
He’s in control.
That means I don’t have to be.
When he finally pulls back, I gasp around him, my chest heaving. Drool connects my swollen lips to his cock in glistening strands.
He doesn’t let me breathe long. He shoves my face back down on him. I’m sweaty, confused, and delirious, fully lost in the moment.
He’s fucking my throat in earnest now. Using me.
And the worst part—the best part, too—is that I don’t want him to stop.
I’m crying, choking, and struggling to breathe around the never-ending thickness of him. I’ve also never been more aroused in my entire life.
My free hand slides between my own legs. I need relief from the unbearable ache building there. My fingers brush slick, swollen flesh, and—
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
Lukas’s growl vibrates through his whole body and into mine. I feel it in my jaw, my throat, my chest.
“This is for me,” he warns. “Only me.”
I whimper around him but I obey, putting my hand back on his thigh. The denial makes me more desperate. Every nerve ending is screaming for something I’m not allowed to have.
I can feel him swelling against my tongue, getting harder.
He’s close.
Sure enough, a few more pumps later, his release comes with a grunt.
His hips jerk up one final time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and then I feel the hot pulse of him releasing directly down my throat.
He holds me there, his hand an iron vise in my hair, keeping me pinned in place while he empties himself inside me.
I swallow convulsively. Once. Twice. Three times.
It seems to go on forever, burst after burst of heat flooding my mouth and my throat, filling me up in ways I never imagined.
When he finally releases his grip, I pull back gasping and coughing. My lips are swollen and my face is a mess of tears and spit and smeared makeup. My jaw hurts. My throat is aching. My knees throb from the unforgiving floor mat.
I’ve never felt more debased.
I’ve never felt more wanted.
I kneel there between his legs, chest heaving, and stare up at him through wet lashes. I’m waiting for something, but I don’t even know what. A word? A touch? Some acknowledgment that what just happened meant something?
Lukas tucks himself away. He zips up and fixes his belt buckle into place. His hands smooth the wrinkled fabric of his trousers, erasing any evidence of what just happened.
Within seconds, his composure is back.
He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces his pocket square—the same one he used to wipe my slick off his fingers in Kir’s conference room, I realize with a jolt—and holds it out to me.
I take the cloth with shaking hands.
I do my best to clean my face, dabbing at the tears and spit and ruined mascara, but it’s hopeless. I can still taste him: salt and musk coating my tongue, clinging to the back of my throat. Evidence of him is everywhere, inside and out, written into my body in ways that soap and water won’t fix.
The car glides to a stop outside my building.
I didn’t even notice we were close. I’m still on my knees on the floor when the partition lowers a quarter-inch.
“We’ve arrived, sir,” the driver says with zero emotion.
I scramble up onto the seat, my legs unsteady and half-asleep from kneeling. Pins and needles shoot through my calves as blood rushes back to places it’s been denied. I pat down my dress with trembling hands, trying to make myself presentable, but I know I must look thoroughly debauched.
Lukas reaches across me and opens my door, letting in the cool night air. I step out onto the pavement. The late-night chill hits my bare skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and reminding me—as if I could forget—that I’m still not wearing anything under this dress.
I turn back to look at him. To my surprise, Lukas is holding something out through the window.
My underwear.
The black lace dangles from his fingers, swaying gently in the night breeze. It’s a taunt, a reminder of everything that happened tonight.
I reach for them automatically, still dazed. My fingers are inches away when, suddenly, he whips his hand back inside the vehicle.
A laugh escapes him. Not the warm, rare sound I heard in France, the one that made him seem almost human. This is something else entirely.
Cold. Cutting. Cruel.
He pockets the underwear without a word. Those dark eyes give me nothing. He raps twice on the partition and the car pulls away from the curb.
I stand there on the sidewalk, bare beneath my dress, my jaw still aching, as he disappears into the night. I’m left staring at the empty street.
What’s crazier: that that just happened…?
Or that I want more?