4. Rosy
Rosy
I knew I would break down, but I didn’t know it’d be in just three weeks.
Three weeks later, I stand outside Atlas Tucker’s penthouse, my heart thudding, his card key in hand.
I used it. After three weeks of being fucked in my office by my client, of forbidden encounters, fantasies, and guilt, I finally took that step.
The elevator ride to the top floor felt like ascending to another world, and in many ways, it was.
I have rich clients, but I don’t quite feel that I belong in this world.
Not even after three weeks of feeling him inside me.
Three weeks of being bent over my own desk, of swallowing his cum on my knees, of letting him stuff a handkerchief in my mouth while he fucked me raw.
Three weeks of crossing every ethical boundary I swore I’d never cross, and the worst part is, I don’t regret a single second of it.
I regret the guilt. I regret the sleepless nights spent staring at my ceiling, replaying the sound of his voice calling me babygirl. But I don’t regret him.
The elevator chimes softly, and the doors slide open to reveal a private foyer that smells like sandalwood and money.
I spot his door right away, and I press the keycard against the reader.
It beeps, and the lock disengages with a soft click that sounds like a door closing on my old life.
I don’t know if I should go in, but I take that risk.
I push it open.
The penthouse unfolds before me like something out of a magazine spread I’d never be able to afford.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Manhattan skyline in a panorama that steals my breath.
The space is massive, all clean lines and dark wood and leather, with tasteful art pieces positioned like exclamation marks.
A grand piano sits in the corner, gleaming under recessed lighting.
The furniture is low and modern, the kind that looks effortless but costs more than most people’s cars.
I stand in the entryway in my cream blouse and black pencil skirt, clutching my purse like a lifeline, and I feel painfully, devastatingly out of place.
This is his world. A world of private elevators and gold-plated keycards and views that make you feel like you’re floating above the city.
And I’m just Rosy Black from Queens, the girl who worked three jobs to put herself through Columbia, who still checks the price tag on everything before she buys it.
But then I think about the way he looks at me when he’s buried inside me, and the doubt dissolves like sugar in hot water.
I take a tentative step forward, my heels clicking against the marble, and the sound echoes through the cavernous space.
“Atlas?” I call out, and my voice sounds thin and small against all this opulence.
Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, coming from somewhere deeper in the apartment. My stomach drops to my knees.
He appears from a hallway to my left, and the sight of him stops every thought in my head. His eyes widen, sharpening their predatory focus as he takes me in. I’m wearing a figure-hugging black dress, something that would look formal under my white coat, but looks erotic here.
“Rosy.” He closes the distance between us, coming to a stop before me.
“I know you weren’t expecting me,” I begin to generate excuses, his shirtless form making my pussy react on instinct.
I can’t face the truth—the truth that he bothers me, not just because of my deep attraction for him, but also because of the feelings he ignites inside me.
I feel like he sees me, and for some time now, I’ve wanted to be more than his fuck buddy.
I want to share more than a brief affair with him.
“I am always expecting you.” He closes the distance between us, his hand cupping my jaw and raising my head. There are no polite introductions, no small talk. We both know why I’m standing in my client’s penthouse at eleven at night. “Why are you here, Rosy?”
“For you,” I answer honestly. “I…I’m ready for more. For something outside the office.”
I’ve never had sex outside the office before. For that matter, I’ve never even been to a man’s apartment. All this feels new and unfamiliar, but Atlas’s dark gaze anchors me.
“Do you want something to drink, something to help you relax?” He lets go of my chin, but I am not in the mood for pleasantries. I want to have him before my courage deserts me, so I grab his hand.
“No. I just want you, Daddy.” The word hangs in the air between us, raw and electric, and I watch something shift behind his eyes.
He takes my hand and leads me deeper into the penthouse, past the piano, past the leather couches, to a low sectional that faces the windows.
The city sprawls beneath us like a carpet of diamonds, and I sit down because my legs won’t hold me much longer.
He sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his bare chest, and the proximity makes my skin prickle.
“Before we do anything,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I expect, “I need to say something.”
He waits. Those dark eyes fixed on me, patient and predatory.
“Our formal therapy sessions are over, Atlas. I can’t keep seeing you as a patient. It’s unethical, and it’s eating me alive.” I twist my fingers together in my lap, the keycard digging into my palm. “But that’s not why I’m here tonight. I’m not here because you’re my client.”
I take a breath. The deepest breath I’ve ever taken.
“I’m here because I want to explore this.
All of it. The submission, the control, the things you make me feel when you call me babygirl.
” My cheeks burn, but I force myself to hold his gaze.
“I want to know what it’s like to fully surrender to you.
Not in my office between sessions. Not as your psychologist. As me.
And I want to feel safe when I give myself to you, outside the safe place. ”
“Babygirl.” Atlas places his hands on my shoulders, gazing at me. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to say that, to become mine without any reservations. Tonight, I am going to breed you on my bed. I’m going to tie you up, and make you scream my name all night.”
I smile. “Lead the way, Mr. Tucker.”
Atlas takes my hand, guiding me to his bedroom. He leads me to the bed, where I sit down, taking in the dark, luxurious panelling, the box mattress with plush bedding, and the hidden dark cupboards.
“This is my private space. I’ve never brought a woman here before.
” He pushes me on the bed, and I go down, lying on the pillows, staring up at him as he climbs over me, shirtless with a matting of dark hair lining his chiseled abs, his thickness visible through his sweatpants.
“You are the first, Rosy.” He leans down, and does something he hasn’t done before.
His lips brush mine, his fingers pulling up the hem of my dress until his hands can cup my bare thighs. “You are special to me.”
His lips close over mine before I can ask any more questions.
I hum with delight as he kisses me, making me feel like his lover rather than a dirty secret.
It’s romantic, this strange intimacy we share in his bedroom.
He’s never kissed me before, but this kiss awakens all my desires.
It’s raw and hot, his tongue pushing into my mouth and tangling with mine, as he consumes my senses.
I close my eyes and let him feel me, my pussy pulsing with need as he takes over.
He pulls his mouth from mine, and I whimper at the loss, my lips swollen and tingling.
His dark eyes burn into me as his fingers find the first button of my dress, popping it open with deliberate slowness.
The cool air of his bedroom kisses my exposed skin, and I shiver, not from cold but from the intensity of his gaze.
“Let me see you, babygirl.” His voice is rough velvet, scraping against every nerve ending in my body. “I want to feel all of you.”
He unbuttons each clasp with agonizing patience, his knuckles brushing against my chest, my stomach, the sensitive skin just above my navel.
Each point of contact sends electricity crackling through me.
When the last button gives way, he peels the fabric from my shoulders, his lips following the path of the retreating material.
He kisses my collarbone, the hollow of my throat, the slope of my shoulder, and each press of his mouth feels like a brand, marking me as his.
The dress pools around my waist, and he lifts my hips just enough to slide it down my legs and off completely, tossing it somewhere onto the floor.
I lie there in nothing but my black lace bra and matching panties, my skin flushed and full of goosebumps, and I feel more exposed than I ever have in his office.
There are no desks to hide behind here. No professional veneer.
Just me, half-naked on his bed, under his hungry stare. This is real intimacy.
Atlas sits back on his heels, his eyes raking over my body with a possessiveness that makes my core clench. His gaze is heavy, weighted, like he’s memorizing every curve and shadow.
“Fuck, Rosy.” His voice drops to something guttural, something that vibrates in my chest. “Look at you. Lying in my bed exactly the way I’ve pictured you every single night for the past three weeks.”
He drags one finger along my inner thigh, and I jerk at the contact, my breath catching.
“I’ve dreamed about this. About having you right here, on these sheets, with nothing between us.
” His hand slides higher, his thumb tracing the edge of my panties, and I whimper.
“I’ve come so many times to the image of you in this bed.
Your hair spread across my pillows. Your legs spread for me.
Your mouth screaming my name while my cock is buried inside you. ”