Chapter 9 #2
I put my mouth on the center of his chest, taste salt and warm skin, feel his breath catch.
The fact that I can do that to him, that I can make this much man go still with my lips, is its own kind of power.
Then his big hands close on my ass, hauling me up against him, and I feel exactly how hard he is through the suit, the long insistent ridge of his cock against my belly.
I grind into it without an ounce of shame, because four days is four days too long.
“You did this on purpose,” he growls against my throat, teeth scraping down to my collarbone. “The dress. The way you took that man apart. You wanted me out of my mind.”
“Maybe.” I get his belt open, close my hand around his cock, hot and so hard it makes me ache just to hold him. I watch his eyes go black when I stroke him root to tip. “Is it working?”
His answer is to lift me onto the steel table like I weigh nothing, scattering a stack of bound hundreds, and shove the tight dress up to my waist. He looks down at me spread out on a table covered in his money, my thighs open for him, and the sound that comes out of him is barely a human sound.
“Look at you,” he says, low and obscene. “Laid out on a table full of cash, soaked for me. You want to get paid for this, Cynthia? Is that the game tonight?”
“Shut up and earn it,” I tell him. He laughs, dark and delighted. The laugh alone nearly finishes me. I’ve decided it’s my favorite sound in the state, which is a problem I’ll be having forever. Then his mouth drops to me and words stop being a thing I can do.
He isn’t gentle, and I don’t want gentle.
Where the first night fell apart in a desperate tangle, this is all command, his, every move of his hands deliberate and devastating.
Two people who know exactly what they’re doing, choosing to do it anyway.
He licks into me slow and filthy until I’m shaking, then pulls my dress off over my head to get his mouth on my tits, sucking a nipple hard enough to wreck me, his thumb rolling the other one.
He works his way down with his mouth, shoves my thighs wide on the steel, two fingers curling deep inside me while his tongue finds my clit in slow ruthless circles.
The first time I come it’s with a stack of hundreds crushed in my fist and his name bouncing off a steel door.
I claw at his shoulders, at the inked stars across his collarbones, dragging him up by the open shirt because I need him inside me before I lose my mind on this table.
“Now,” I pant. “Sevastian, now, I swear to God.”
He lines the broad head of his cock up against me and drives in, one hard stroke, filling me so completely I see white. His hand comes up to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a claim and a question both. I arch up into it and moan yes, because the answer is yes, all of it is yes.
He fucks me hard on a table full of his dirty money, hips snapping into mine, the steel cold at my back and him burning hot everywhere we touch. Every thrust drives the breath out of me in a sound I’d be fired for making upstairs.
He watches me take his cock, eyes black, jacket still half on, the pakhan undone exactly one layer deep, and being the thing that undoes that layer makes me clench around him hard enough that he swears in two languages.
I take every brutal perfect inch and beg for more.
He gives it to me, that leashed fury finally loose, his command fraying with every thrust until he’s as gone as I am.
I shatter with his hand at my throat, his cock buried deep, his name a ruin in my mouth, my whole body clenching around him.
He follows me a few strokes later, spilling into me with a groan torn loose from somewhere under all that iron, his forehead dropping to mine, the two of us slick and wrecked among the ruins of his neat stacks of cash.
For a minute the only sound is us breathing and the buzz of the lights.
There’s a band of hundreds stuck to my shoulder blade.
He peels it off with enormous care, examines it, sets it back on the stack like it might be audited.
I start laughing and can’t stop. After a second he laughs too, quiet, into my hair, the two of us hysterical in a vault, wrecked, rich, ridiculous.
Then he straightens. I watch the warmth go out of him by degrees, watch the man reassemble himself into the pakhan, and I know what’s coming before he says it, because I’m already doing the exact same thing to myself, brick by brick.
“Don’t go getting ideas,” he says into the hard light. Quiet. Flat. A rule set down on the steel between us. “This was just letting off steam. You’re still a job.”
“Trust me, I’m not picking out curtains,” I say.
“Good.”
“Though if I were, you keep a fortune down here and light it like a DMV.”
Something crosses his face entirely against his will, the almost-laugh, strangled at birth, and somehow that’s hotter than everything that just happened on this table. I keep that observation to myself.
Just letting off steam. It’s a lie. A beautiful, necessary lie.
I take it from him gratefully and hand him mine right back, because I need it every bit as much as he does.
The alternative, the truth, the thing that just happened to both of us on this table, is a thing neither of us can afford to look at straight on.
I slide off the table on legs that barely work. I find my dress. He buttons his shirt back over that body I’d commit felonies for, and we put ourselves together in a room full of money, two people lying to each other in perfect agreement.
Neither of us believes it for one single second.