Chapter 21 #2
He works me through it, every muttered “fuck yes” and shivered gasp winding more tightly through the marrow of my bones.
His fingers, slick with me and knuckles scraped raw, dig crescents into my thigh and I want those marks, want to look down tomorrow in the harsh bathroom light and see evidence that this happened, that it was real.
I come again, messier this time, half sobbing, half laughing at the flood of release. It’s not graceful and I don’t care.
He doesn’t look up, just keeps licking until I have to beg, have to fist his hair and plead enough, please, and he finally stops, panting, face slick and jaw trembling from the strain of holding back.
He draws in a shaking breath against my inner thigh and stands, slow, like he’s not sure his knees will hold. The look he gives me is jagged, glassy, wrecked in a way I’ve never seen him.
My heart corkscrews in my chest. I reach for him on instinct, touch his face, run my thumb across the cut of his cheekbone.
He blinks at the contact like it’s unfamiliar, like he’s not expecting tenderness from this side of me, and I almost laugh. Like he didn’t just take me apart and eat the pieces.
“You’re a fucking menace,” he rasps, and I smile for real, teeth showing.
“Funny,” I manage, “I was going to say the same about you.”
But what I really mean is, Please, again. Please, more.
His hands are everywhere at once. One cupping the back of my head, the other staking a bruising claim at my hip.
He drags me up against him with a need so desperate it makes my vision shimmer. I go gladly, hands finding the buttons at his collar, the knot of his tie, eager, clumsy.
I want every layer gone. Want him stripped down to nerves and heartbeat and all the fault lines I know are there. Skin and mouth and muscle, all hunger and zero shame.
He lets me, lets me tear at the careful construction of his shirt until the buttons scatter across the pockmarked tile, lets me slide my hands beneath the crisp cotton and find the ridge of old scars, the heat of him, the wild stammer of his heart under my palm.
There’s a rawness to his breath when I kiss the dark line of his clavicle, then the pronounced hollow at the center of his throat.
I bite, just to feel him flinch, just to hear his breath stutter, and taste the salt. He cranes into it, almost grateful.
I want him reckless. I want to undo him in a way that leaves him no room for consequences, gives him only impulse and the single-minded need to fuck me until the past is forgotten and the future is irrelevant.
I yank his belt free and toss it; it lashes against the file cabinet with a satisfying snap. My hands map the cut of his hips, the dip at his waist, the fine dusting of hair that leads down, down.
I want to remember every texture, every thermal shift from wrist to ribcage to groin. He’s hot everywhere, so tense it feels like violence.
His cock is already thick and leaking, the taste of me still on his tongue as he lifts my chin and claims my mouth all over again, tongue shoving inside me with a filthiness that makes my pussy contract.
I want to laugh but the only thing that comes out is a sound that hasn’t got a vowel in it, just hunger and its echo.
He tears his pants open, palm bracing the desk so hard I hear the wood splinter under his hand, and in the next second he’s stroking himself, head slick and angry red. He watches me intently.
He spits in his palm, works it once down the shaft, then lines up and pushes in with a single, brutal thrust that rips a shout out of me.
There’s no preamble, no slow glide. He splits me on the first go, and the burn is perfect, exactly what I want.
Silas buries himself to the hilt, holds there, his hips welded to mine while the aftershock rattles my bones. The pressure inside me is a bright, white, splitting a hole in the universe, and there’s only the shaking of my thighs and the sound of him bruising against me, obscene and impossible.
He grabs my ass, shoves forward so I’m almost off the desk, held there with just his weight and the iron cable arm around my lower back.
My head bats against the window behind the desk. I see the shape of us, partial and refracted, and it looks exactly how it feels: dangerous, necessary, a perfect accident.
He fucks me with the kind of technique you can only get from being so goddamn starved for so long that you taught yourself to be patient out of spite.
Each thrust is a punctuation mark on some private thesis about what I am, what he is, what we are together. I lose track of time, lose track of my own words, which keep breaking and reassembling on the air, syllables in no language and volume set somewhere between “please” and “kill me.”
There’s nothing but the furnace of his body and the piston of his hips, the glass of the window shuddering with each impact. I think, for a dazzling, brief second, that I would let him fuck me through the wall if that was where inertia led us.
The universe condenses: the office, the ruined skirt, the sensation of my own pulse in every nerve ending.
That’s it. That’s all.
I scrape my nails into his shoulders, use the leverage to grind myself harder onto him, and the way his eyelids flicker like he’s short circuiting is almost a reward.
He’s not holding back anymore. There’s no savor, just the destructive logic of friction and the disaster of need. He bares his teeth at me and I bare mine right back, daring him, begging for more.
He obliges, and the rhythm of his hips changes, deep, grinding, unspeakably good, and I can tell he’s close because his breath is this ragged, desperate saw scraping in my ear, and his hand goes to my jaw, forcing my eyes open so I have to look at him.
The order in his stare is clear: Stay with me. Don’t you dare look away.
I don’t want to, could never, not when he looks like this. Like I’m the singular point of gravity in his fucked-up universe, like none of the rest of it matters, not the town, not our jobs, not the mess we’ll have to scrub from the desk when we’re done.
I angle my pelvis so he’s hitting every nerve again, and I shatter, nothing but sweat and spit and body. He doesn’t slow, just grinds harder, chasing his own ending.
I find his mouth and bite hard enough to draw blood, taste it coppery, stinging on my tongue, and he comes, cock pulsing hot and wild, spilling into me in hard, unstoppable surges.
Each pulse makes me keen, wringing the last of the orgasm out of me. I shudder until my voice breaks and all I can do is sob into his mouth, clinging so hard it feels like I might splinter both of us.
He collapses over me, hands planted to either side, his chest slick with sweat, head bent into the curve of my shoulder. There’s a noise, low and unraveling, that takes me a second to realize is him.
He breathes like he’s been underwater, starved for this, for me, for the right to lose himself in something that won’t collapse under the strain.
The office cool chills against the heat of my skin, and only then do I realize I’m shaking. Every nerve is so open, so raw, I half-expect to see the skin stripped off in ribbons, nerve endings like exposed wire.
It’s a long moment before either of us moves. He doesn’t straighten right away. A man so hyper-regulated every day of his life letting himself slouch into this, slack and human.
He presses weighted kisses to my collar and neck and the line of my jaw, maybe for reassurance the world hasn’t vanished entirely. The tenderness is so at odds with what just happened it makes my eyes water, and I blink hard, anchoring myself to the sting.
He’s the one to shift first, easing out of me with an apology half-formed on his lips, but I catch his wrist in my hand before he can step away entirely.
“Don’t,” I say.
He stills. For a man who controls everything, it’s almost shocking how quickly he listens.
Silas’s eyes pierce me. Spread out on the desk, flushed and disheveled and absolutely not something that fits into the clean, ordered life he’s built.
His chest rises once. Falls.
“Don’t say anything,” I rasp out once more as I push myself into a sitting position. “We can just… let it be.”
I do want him to speak, a little. I’d much rather know what’s going on in his mind. But truth be told, I don’t know if I can handle it, so for now, silence feels a lot easier.