Chapter 5 #2
I struggle against his grip. He holds fast. I'm strong—soldier strong—but he's bigger, heavier, and he's using every ounce of it to keep me trapped.
"Let go—"
"Make me."
I surge against him, trying to wrench free, and he uses my momentum to spin me.
My back slams against the door hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.
His body pins mine. Every hard, hot inch of him pressed against me.
And I feel it.
The thick, rigid length of his cock against my hip.
He's hard. He's been hard this whole time, getting off on my fury, on my struggle, on the violence crackling between us.
Knowing this should disgust me.
Instead, heat floods through me—dark and shameful and so intense I can feel myself getting wet.
My hips roll against him before I can stop them, grinding against that hardness, seeking more.
I hate myself for it.
I don't stop.
I hear the sharp intake of his breath. Feel his hips press harder against mine, his cock grinding into my hip.
"There she is," he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. "There's the truth you've been hiding from everyone. Including yourself."
"Fuck you."
"That's exactly what's about to happen."
His mouth crashes down on mine.
I should bite through his lip. Should drive my knee into his groin. Should use every dirty trick the Army taught me to put him on the ground and walk away.
Instead, I kiss him back.
And God help me—God fucking help me—it feels like finally breathing after eight years underwater.
His mouth devours mine with bruising force, tongue pushing past my lips, claiming me.
I meet him with teeth, biting down on his lower lip until I taste copper, and the groan that tears out of him vibrates through my entire body.
Eight years. Eight years I've been running from this moment, and now that it's happening, I can't remember why I ever thought I could escape.
His hands release my wrists to fist in my hair, yanking my head back, exposing my throat.
His mouth drags down—teeth scraping, tongue soothing—and I'm gasping, clawing at his shoulders, ripping at his shirt like an animal.
"Eight years," he growls against my pulse. "Eight fucking years I've waited for this."
"Shut up." I drag his mouth back to mine because his words are destroying me, dismantling every wall I've ever built. If he keeps talking, I'll fall apart. "Shut up and—"
He lifts me like I weigh nothing.
My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and the new angle presses his cock directly against my core.
Even through layers of denim, the pressure is devastating.
I moan into his mouth—a broken, desperate sound I barely recognize—and roll my hips against him.
Grinding myself on his hardness, chasing friction I shouldn't want, unable to stop.
His fingers dig into my thighs hard enough to bruise. "Fuck. Liberty—you feel—"
He carries me to the desk. Sweeps everything off with one violent arm—laptop crashing to the floor, papers scattering, a crystal decanter shattering into glittering shards.
He sets me on the edge and steps between my thighs, his hands shoving up my shirt, yanking at my bra, desperate to get to skin.
"Tell me to stop." His mouth is at my throat, teeth grazing my pulse. "Tell me to stop and I will. I'll walk away. I'll never touch you again."
I should. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to end this. To shove him away. To save whatever scraps of dignity I have left.
His fingers find my nipple and roll it between thumb and forefinger.
Pleasure shoots through me like lightning—straight through me, making me clench around nothing, making me gasp.
"I hate you," I hear myself say instead.
"I know." He yanks my shirt over my head. Unhooks my bra and lets it fall. Stares at my bare breasts like he's seeing something sacred. "God, I know."
His mouth closes over my nipple—hot and wet and devastating—and everything else disappears.
There's only sensation now.
His tongue circling the hardened peak.
His teeth grazing.
His hand palming my other breast, thumb brushing over the nipple until I'm arching into him, fisting his hair, pulling him closer when I should be pushing him away.
Sounds spill from my throat that I don't recognize—needy, broken, animal sounds.
I should be ashamed.
I'm too far gone to care.
His hand slides down my stomach. Pops the button on my jeans. Drags the zipper down with a rasp that makes me shiver.
I help him.
Lift my hips so he can drag the denim down my legs.
I'm wearing plain cotton underwear—nothing sexy, nothing special—but he looks at me like I'm wearing diamonds.
"Fucking gorgeous." His voice is wrecked. "You're so fucking gorgeous it hurts to look at you."
He drops to his knees.
The sight of him there—Elias Ashford, obsessive billionaire, kneeling on his own study floor with his face inches from my pussy—sends a dark thrill through me.
I fist my hand in his hair and yank his head back, forcing him to meet my eyes. "This doesn't mean anything."
His smile is wicked. Wolfish. A predator about to feast. "Keep telling yourself that."
He hooks his fingers in my underwear and drags it down my legs.
Then he spreads my thighs wide with his hands—wider than I've ever been spread—and stares at my exposed pussy like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
Heat floods my face. "Don't—"
I try to close my legs, shame crashing over me, but his hands clamp down on my thighs, holding me open. Exposed. Vulnerable in a way I've never let myself be.
"Don't hide from me." His breath ghosts over my swollen flesh, and I shiver violently. "Not anymore. Not ever again. I want to see all of you."
He leans forward and drags his tongue from my entrance to my clit in one long, slow, devastating stroke.
My head falls back.
My fingers tighten in his hair until I must be hurting him.
A sound rips out of me—half moan, half sob—and I feel him smile against my most sensitive flesh.
"That's it." He licks again, even slower, savoring me like I'm the finest thing he's ever tasted. "Let me hear you. Let me hear every sound you've been holding back for all these years."
He buries his face between my thighs, and my world dissolves.
His tongue is relentless.
He licks into me like he's been starving for this, like tasting me is the only thing keeping him alive.
He finds my clit and circles it, teasing, never giving me quite enough pressure, keeping me right on the edge.
I'm writhing on his desk. Grinding against his face. Making sounds I've never heard come out of my own mouth.
"Please—" The word tears out of me before I can stop it.
He pulls back enough to speak, his lips glistening with me. "Please what? Tell me what you need."
"I need—" I choke on the words. Can't say them. Can't admit what I want from the man who's ruined my life.
"Say it." His tongue flicks my clit—quick, light, nowhere near enough. "Say it, Liberty."
"Make me come." The confession rips out of me like something dying. "Please, Elias. Please make me come."
He groans against my flesh like my begging is better than any touch.
Then he seals his mouth over my clit and sucks, slides two fingers inside me, and crooks them against a spot I didn't even know I had.
I come screaming his name.
The orgasm crashes through me in brutal waves, pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
I'm shaking, sobbing, clenching around his fingers so hard I must be hurting him, and I don't care.
Tears stream down my face because it's too much—it's all too much—and I hate how good it feels.
He doesn't stop.
He works me through the aftershocks with devastating gentleness, his tongue soft against my oversensitive flesh.
His fingers keep moving slow and deep, drawing out every last tremor until I'm boneless. Destroyed.
When he finally rises, his chin is wet with me. His eyes are black holes, pupils swallowing the pale blue.
"Turn around."
I should say no. Should slide off this desk and walk out while I still have any shred of self-respect left.
I turn around.
I hear his belt buckle. The rasp of his zipper. The crinkle of a condom wrapper.
Then his hand presses between my shoulder blades, bending me forward until my breasts flatten against the cold wood of the desk.
His foot kicks my legs wider.
The head of his cock nudges against my entrance—hot and thick and impossibly hard.
"I've imagined this a thousand times." His voice shakes. "A thousand different ways. But nothing—" He pushes in an inch, and I gasp. "Nothing I imagined—" Another inch. "Comes close to how you actually feel."
He pushes in slow. Inch by devastating inch, letting me feel every ridge, every vein, stretching me until I'm burning.
I'm dripping wet from his mouth, but he's big—bigger than anyone I've had—and by the time he bottoms out, I'm gasping, overwhelmed, so full I can feel him in my throat.
He drapes himself over my back, his weight pressing me into the desk, his lips finding my ear.
"You have no idea how many times I've imagined this." His hips pull back, push forward in a slow roll that makes stars explode behind my eyes. "You, bent over my desk. Taking my cock. Finally giving me what I've wanted since you were eighteen years old."
"And what's that?" My voice is unrecognizable. Shattered.
"Everything." He thrusts again, harder. "Every piece of yourself you've been holding back. Every moan, every scream, every tear. I want all of it, Liberty. I want all of you."
He starts to move, and I lose the ability to form words.
His hips snap against my ass in a brutal, relentless rhythm, driving into me so deep I feel him everywhere.
One hand grips my hip hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises. The other slides around to find my clit.
"Look at you." His voice is ragged, barely controlled. "Taking me so well. So fucking perfect. Like you were put on this earth to be my little sex toy."
I should tell him to shut up.
Should hate the way his possessive words make me clench around him, make me push back to meet every thrust, make me chase another orgasm I can already feel building.
"That's it." He pounds into me harder, faster. "Take what you need. Use me."