16. Emily #2
“You said twenty minutes, Reed,” I breathe when he lets me speak. “I’m working with a deadline here.”
He huffs a laugh against my ear. “Then stay quiet for me.” He rolls on a condom fast, lines up, and pushes in with one thrust. I gasp and bury my face in my arm to muffle the sound.
He feels thick and hot, stretching me fast. My pussy clenches around his cock as he sinks deeper, inch by inch, and the burn mixes with pleasure in a way that makes my toes curl.
He’s big, bigger than I remember in this rushed moment, and the way he fills me sends sparks through my core.
Every slow push forward makes my walls stretch wider, accommodating his girth until I feel completely stuffed and aching in the best way.
Richard grips my hips and starts fucking me in short, hard strokes, dominant and steady.
Each thrust makes the desk creak. Papers slide under my cheek.
He reaches around and finds my clit again, rubbing while he drives into me.
I push back to meet him, trying to stay quiet even though every slap of skin sounds loud in my head.
My thoughts race with how good this feels, the thick drag of his cock pulling out and slamming back in, the stretch that borders on too much but hits every sensitive spot inside me.
He’s so deep it feels like he’s claiming every part of me, his size forcing my pussy to yield and flutter around him with each thrust. He keeps going, building a rhythm that has me panting into my arm, every slide making me hyper aware of how he splits me open and fills me so completely.
The friction builds hotter with each stroke, his cock dragging against my inner walls in a way that makes my whole body light up.
I can’t stop thinking about the size of him, how he’s stretching me wider than anyone else ever has, the pressure so intense it’s almost overwhelming but exactly what I crave right now.
“You feel so fucking good,” he says, voice low. “Tight little pussy gripping me like it doesn’t want to let go. Say my title again.”
“Sir,” I hiss, even though I love the filthy words.
He does exactly that, pounding into me until my thighs shake.
One hand stays on my clit and the other slides up to squeeze my tit again, pinching the nipple.
Pleasure builds sharp and fast. I clench around him and come with my teeth sunk into my forearm, walls pulsing around his cock.
The orgasm rolls through me in waves, my stretched pussy squeezing him tighter as he keeps moving.
He keeps thrusting through it, chasing his own finish. “I’m going to fill this condom right here on my desk,” he mutters. “Think you can stay quiet while I do it?”
I nod, still catching my breath. He slams in deep a few more times and comes with a bitten-off groan, heat flooding inside the latex. We stay locked together, breathing hard, his chest against my back and his hand still cupping my breast. Sweat sticks my blouse to my skin.
For a second we just stay there, both of us wrecked and breathing hard, my forehead against his shoulder, the entire surface of his desk a disaster around us, a stray page stuck to the back of my thigh.
Then there’s a knock.
We freeze.
“Mr. Reed?” Paul’s voice, right outside the door. “Your four-thirty’s here. They’re early.”
Richard goes still, and for one second I watch pure panic flash across his face, there and gone, swapped out almost instantly for a far more annoying expression, which is amusement.
Mine is not amusement. Mine is oh my god, oh shit, oh my god.
My heart slams up into my throat. My blouse is half off.
There are papers stuck to me. Paul is standing on the other side of a door that does not feel nearly thick enough, and behind him is some poor executive who showed up early to a meeting they are absolutely not going to get on time, and I am sitting on the CEO’s desk in a state I cannot begin to explain away.
“Just a minute,” Richard calls.
His voice does not shake. Not even a little. Smooth as anything, like he’s been interrupted doing paperwork, while I am frantically trying to remember how buttons work and mouthing get off, get off, they’re right there at him with my hands shaking.
I scramble off the desk, yank my skirt down, do up my blouse with fingers that have stopped fully cooperating, and shove my hair into something that hopefully reads as windswept rather than what it actually is.
Richard, meanwhile, calmly tucks his shirt back in like a man with all the time in the world and not one single thing on his conscience.
I point a finger at his stupid handsome face and mouth, I am going to kill you.
He just grins, unhurried, completely unbothered, and reaches over to fix one button I did up wrong, smoothing my collar flat like we have all afternoon.
Outside the door, Paul clears his throat.
The four-thirty shifts their feet on the carpet.
And Richard Reed, billionaire, CEO, the man who left me a polite note on the pillow every morning for three weeks because he didn’t want to assume too much, looks me dead in the eye while half the executive floor waits six feet away, and doesn’t rush, and doesn’t panic, and doesn’t so much as check his own hair.
“Coming,” he calls toward the door, easy as anything.
His voice doesn’t shake at all.
Mine would have. I really, genuinely, am going to kill him.