Chapter 9 #3
He kissed her again, deeper, rougher, hands sliding under her skirt, palms hot on her bare thighs. He didn’t wait, didn’t ask — just moved, decisive as always, and when his fingers found the edge of her underwear, he yanked them down, tore them, didn’t care.
She gasped, but it wasn’t a protest. Not even close.
He shoved her skirt higher, bared her completely, and stared — like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
“Viktor.” Her voice was a warning. Or maybe a plea.
He didn’t make her wait. He dropped to his knees, dragged her to the edge of the desk, and buried his mouth between her legs like he was starving. No hesitation. No mercy.
She grabbed the edge of the desk, knuckles white, head thrown back. The first stroke of his tongue made her shudder. The second made her moan, sharp and helpless. He ate her like he owned her, like he’d waited years for this — and maybe he had.
She was already shaking, already close, but he didn’t let up — pinned her thighs apart, held her steady, tongue relentless and obscene. She tried to squirm, to twist away, but he just gripped her harder, mouth working her until she shattered.
She came so hard she almost blacked out, lights exploding behind her eyes, her cry echoing off the studio walls. He didn’t stop — licked her through it, slow and thorough, until she was trembling, boneless, begging.
He stood, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, eyes dark and wild.
She reached for him, desperate, greedy. He let her tug at his belt, his trousers, let her shove them down.
His cock was thick, flushed, already leaking.
She wrapped her hand around him, stroked once, twice, loving the way his jaw clenched, the way he hissed her name through his teeth.
He lined up at her entrance, pressed in slow, giving her a second to adjust. She didn’t want slow. She wanted him inside, wanted to feel every inch, every impossible stretch. She hooked her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper.
The first thrust knocked the breath out of her. He filled her, stretched her, bottomed out and held there, shaking with the effort not to move too fast, too hard.
“Jesus, Josephine.”
She smiled, smug and wrecked. “More.”
He gave it to her. He fucked her hard, desk rattling under the assault, papers scattering to the floor.
She clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, her own name a broken sound in her throat.
He braced one hand behind her, the other gripping her ass, pulling her down onto him, the angle brutal and perfect.
She could feel herself already pulsing around him, heat and pressure and the kind of desperate need that made her want to claw at his skin just to anchor herself.
He felt it too — every slick, tight squeeze, every tremor.
His hands fisted in her hair, dragging her mouth back to his.
He kissed her like he was trying to brand her from the inside out. Hard. Wet. Messy.
She tasted herself on his tongue. God, that did something to her — made her hips jerk, made her moan, made her want to see just how far she could push him before he snapped.
Viktor didn’t snap. He never did. But he was close now — she could feel it in the way his body shuddered, the way he cursed against her lips, the way he drove into her like he was chasing something only she could give him.
She gave it. Gave him everything. Every gasp, every whimper, every frantic roll of her hips.
She wanted him wild. She wanted him ruined.
He broke first. His rhythm stuttered, went rough, then brutal. He gripped her ass, dragged her forward, and slammed into her so deep she saw stars. Her name left his mouth in a low, shattered groan. He pulsed inside her, hot and thick, and the feel of it sent her over the edge again.
She came apart for him. Again. Harder than before. Her whole body arched, every muscle locked, every thought burned away by pleasure.
The aftershocks hit in waves — sharp, then soft, then sharp again.
She clung to him, nails biting into his shoulders, face buried in his neck while she tried to remember how to breathe.
He held her through it, didn’t let go, didn’t move away — just pressed his mouth to her hair, her cheek, the corner of her jaw, whispering her name like a secret.
She could feel his heart pounding against her chest. She could feel her own, wild and unsteady. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Just breathing. Just the soft, stunned silence that came after something real.
Eventually he pulled back enough to look at her.
She looked wrecked — makeup smudged, hair wild, blouse torn, skirt twisted around her waist. She didn’t care.
He clearly didn’t either. He traced his thumb over her cheek, then her mouth; she bit it, just to see what he’d do.
He smiled — that sharp, dangerous smile she’d never learned to resist.
“You are trouble,” he said, voice low and rough.
She grinned, still high on the afterglow. “You started it.”
“I intend to finish it.”
He kissed her again, slower this time, less desperate, more deliberate, like he was savoring every second. She let herself melt into it, let herself feel everything he was offering.
When he finally eased out of her, she made a sound of protest. He just laughed, soft and satisfied, and helped her straighten her clothes. Her underwear was a lost cause; she glared at him.
He shrugged, completely unrepentant. “I’ll buy you more.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile wasn’t even a little annoyed. She looked at him — blouse half-buttoned, skirt wrinkled, hair a mess — and laughed. He wiped the corner of her mouth with his thumb, slow and proprietary, like he enjoyed seeing her ruined.
“You’re a menace,” she said, voice shredded and soft.
He tucked a wild strand of hair behind her ear. “You like it.”
She did. God, she really did.
She hopped off the desk, legs shaky; he steadied her, hands warm and steady at her waist, thumbs tracing circles.
She could feel his fingerprints stamped into her skin, heat lingering everywhere he’d touched.
She straightened her skirt, tried to find her dignity, found none.
He smirked, not even pretending to help.
She snatched her torn underwear off the desk, glared at him, stuffed it in her bag. “You owe me at least two pairs.”
He grinned, sharp and unrepentant. “I’ll buy you a dozen.”
She laughed again, couldn’t help it. He made her reckless. Happy. She’d never admit it out loud, but the truth was right there, humming in her chest.
She glanced at the chaos on her desk — papers everywhere, a pen on the floor, her laptop crooked like it had tried to escape the carnage. “You know I have to work here tomorrow.”
He shrugged, like the mess was a compliment. “I’ll help you clean up.” He didn’t move to do it — just watched her, eyes hungry and soft at the same time. She felt herself flush.
He stepped closer, crowding her against the desk again.
This time the kiss was slow, careful, like he wanted to taste the aftershocks, memorize the sweetness.
She melted into it, arms looping around his neck.
His hands mapped her hips, her back, pulled her in and held her there, like he wasn’t done with her yet. Not even close.
She broke the kiss, forehead pressed to his. “We’re going to be late.”
He nuzzled her jaw, lips at her ear. “Let them wait.”
She shivered. Couldn’t help it.
“Still cold?” he asked, of course noticing.
She shook her head. “Not even a little.”
He smiled, satisfied. “Good.”
He helped her fix her hair, tried to button her blouse, failed, and just shrugged.
She laughed, grabbed her jacket, let him help her into it — annoyingly good at small gestures, the kind that made her feel seen.
Cherished. He picked up her bag, slung it over his shoulder.
His own jacket was a lost cause, but he put it on anyway.
She liked the way he looked — all powerful and slightly disheveled, like he’d just conquered a city and barely broken a sweat.
He laced their fingers together, didn’t ask, just did it, like it was the most natural thing in the world. She let him. Of course she did.
They walked out together, lights off, door locked behind them. The studio was quiet, empty, but it didn’t feel lonely. It felt like the only right way to end the night.