Just The Two Of Us #3
Her chest heaves, her pulse thrashing against my fingers.
“You’ve got two choices, Brooklyn.” My tone is calm, cruel, inevitable. “You can sit there, legs wide, and show me what’s mine.” I let the pause sink in, heavy as chains. “Or I can drag you out of that chair myself, bend you over this fucking table, and take a look anyway.”
Her breath hitches. She hates me at this moment. I see it in the fire in her eyes. She hates me—and she’s burning for me.
“Your move.”
I release her chin, deliberately slow, letting her feel the imprint of my hand linger on her skin. Then I sit back again, sipping my coffee like it’s just another morning.
She doesn’t move.
Not an inch. Not a twitch. Just sits there with her knees clamped tight together, like the pressure might save her from me, like she thinks willpower alone can cage the pulse thrumming at her throat.
I wait.
The silence gnaws at her. She fidgets with the napkin, folds and unfolds it until it’s a mangled mess in her hands. My eyes never leave her lap. She knows it. She feels it.
“You’re—” Her voice cracks, and she swallows hard. “You’re impossible.”
I smirk into my coffee. “Impossible?” I echo, lazy, amused. “No, baby girl. I’m inevitable.”
Her eyes flash. Anger, shame, arousal tangled so tight I can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. She opens her mouth, then shuts it again.
That’s when I lean forward, slow enough she can see it coming but not stop it. My forearm rests on the table, my other hand tracing idle circles along the wood grain. “Still waiting, Brooklyn.”
Her thighs press tighter. She tilts her chin as if defiance alone could shield her. “Maybe I don’t want to give you what you want.”
I laugh. Quiet, deep, cruel. “Maybe?”
Her face burns. She’s cornered herself, and she knows it.
“You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that,” I murmur, studying her like a puzzle I’ve already solved. “But don’t kid yourself. Every second you sit there pretending you’re not wet, you’re just proving me right.”
Her breath stutters. She grips the table edge so hard her knuckles blanch.
I take another slow sip, letting the silence sharpen. Then, deliberately, I set my cup down, the sound of porcelain on wood loud in the tension.
“You’ve got three seconds,” I say quietly, my eyes cutting into hers. “Three. To decide if you’re going to be a good girl, or if you want me to ruin that pretty little chair with your screams.”
Her pulse leaps. I count, slow, steadily, cruel.
“One.”
She shakes her head, whispering something I can’t quite catch.
“Two.”
Her knees twitch. The tiniest movement. The kind that betrays everything.
I lean back, letting the threat hang heavy between us. “Don’t make me get to three, Brooklyn.”
Her lips part like she wants to speak, but all that slips out is a shaky exhale. I catch it—every ragged ounce of it—and let it curl around me like smoke.
The chair creaks when she shifts. Not much. Just enough that I know she’s trapped between the urge to bolt and the need to stay exactly where I told her to.
“Two and a half,” I murmur, not rushing it, dragging each syllable across her nerves like the scrape of a blade.
Her eyes snap to mine, wide, glassy. “That’s not—”
“Not fair?” My mouth tilts. “Baby girl, nothing about me is fair.”
She bites the inside of her cheek so hard I see the muscle flex, desperate to hold back whatever words are clawing to get out. The silence stretches, and I savour it, leaning back just enough that the space between us becomes its own leash.
My fingers drum against the table, slow, steady. Each tap makes her flinch. Tap. Her lashes flutter. Tap. She grips the hem of her dress. Tap. Her knees shift a fraction wider before snapping shut again.
“Funny,” I say softly, almost conversational, “how you’re still sitting here. If you hated this—if you hated me—you’d be gone. You’d have run the second I said one.”
Her throat bobs. She doesn’t run.
“You want to know what I see?” I let my voice drop, low and rough enough to drag shivers across her skin.
“I see a good girl fighting like hell not to break. I see those thighs pressed tight, pretending you can cage what’s mine.
And I see how much you want me to snap and take the choice away from you. ”
She gasps, jerks as if I slapped her with the truth.
“Say it,” I taunt, leaning in an inch, my smirk a blade against her pride. “Admit it. Tell me you’re already wet for me while you sit at my table pretending you’re still in control.”
Her hand trembles on the table, curling into a fist. Her mouth opens, closes.
I lower my voice to a near growl, the words just for her.
“Two and three-quarters.”
“Two and three-quarters,” I breathe again, just to feel her shudder.
Her chest heaves, a shallow, panicked rhythm that tells me she knows what’s coming. She’s stalling, biting her lip so hard it’s going to bruise, fingers clawing at the table like she can anchor herself against the inevitable.
But inevitability is mine.
I lean in, slow enough that she has every chance to beg, to plead, to lie through her teeth. She doesn’t. She just quivers, caught in that space where her body betrays her long before her mouth dares.
I let the silence stretch until it’s suffocating. Until her knuckles go white and her lashes tremble against her cheeks.
Then I say it.
Low. Final. A verdict.
“Three.”
Her whole body jerks as if the word was a hand around her throat. She inhales sharply, broken, like she’s just been shoved off a ledge.
“Up,” I order.
She doesn’t move. Not at first. Not until I push my chair back, the scrape of it on the floor louder than her pulse. I stand, looming over her, forcing her chin up until she meets my eyes.
“I said up.”
She rises on shaky legs, her thighs brushing the edge of the table, her dress wrinkling where she’s been clutching it. I watch the way her chest trembles with every breath, the way shame and heat wrestle across her face.
“Turn.”
Her hesitation lasts a single beat before she obeys. My hand closes around her hip, dragging her back into me until she feels the full weight of what she’s done to me.
“Good girl,” I murmur against her ear, my voice so dark it makes her knees buckle. “You see how easy that was? How much you like being told what to do?”
She shakes her head, breathless denial tumbling out. “I—I don’t.”
I laugh low, wicked. My palm slides down her stomach, pressing just hard enough that she gasps.
“Then why,” I growl, lips brushing her skin, “are you shaking like you’ve been waiting your whole life for me to count to three?”
Her denial is thin, paper-thin, and it rips apart under my hands.
I spin her back toward the table, pressing her palms flat against the wood, my body pinning hers there before she has time to think, before she can catch her breath.
“You wanted three,” I murmur against the nape of her neck, my teeth grazing the soft curve. “Now you’ll take it.”
Her spine arches, involuntary, a whimper strangled in her throat as my grip forces her down just enough that the table bites into her hips. I drink it in—every flicker of rebellion, every tremor of need that gives her away.
She’s mine in this moment. Not Kate’s best friend. Not my assistant. Mine.
My hand slides up her arm, pinning her wrist harder to the table. “Say it,” I demand, voice edged with steel.
Her breath hitches. “Say what?”
“That you’ve been waiting for this. That you’ve been dripping through every command, every look. Don’t lie to me, Brooklyn.”
“I—” She cuts herself off, her voice breaking in the middle, and it’s all the confession I need.
I chuckle dark, pressing closer. “That’s what I thought.”
When I push inside her, it’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s the culmination of every threat, every tease, every number that’s been hanging over her head. She cries out, and the sound is raw enough to twist something low in my gut.
“Fuck—Dean—”
“Louder,” I growl, driving harder, hand sliding from her wrist to her throat, tilting her head back so she has no choice but to meet my eyes over her shoulder. “I want this empty house to know who you belong to.”
Her lips part, a sob tangled with a moan, and she breaks under me, voice shattering on my name.
That’s it. That’s the sound I’ve been chasing since the first time I looked at her too long.
Fuck, she feels so fucking good. Her pussy grips my cock like she never wants to let go.
Her pussy is soaking me, every gasp has me throbbing deep inside of her.
“That’s it, baby girl.” I breathe into her.
My hips slam into her with every thrust her gasps become louder.
Driving all the doubt from her body while her pussy grips my cock so fucking hard I see fucking stars.
“Daddy.” She screams.
Fuck.
She doesn’t know what that does to me, my pretty baby making a mess all over my cock. “Baby girl, fuck, you’re perfect.”
Her body trembles beneath mine but the only thing I can think about is her pussy grips my cock, how sweet she sounds crying for me and how fucking nice it feels her dripping her desire all over me.
I want her to fucking paint me in her juices.
I want to bathe in her fucking scent, so I can smell her wherever I go.
Her fucking sweet words turn into an incoherant mess, I can feel the sheen of sweat dripping down her body. Her throat crackles as she continue to scream with every deep thrust, my cock massages her walls and I welcome the fucking feeling of her squeezing me so tight, I almost explode.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop.” She begs while I slide as deep as I can go.
“Come on, baby girl, cum all over my cock. Make a mess of me.” I growl enjoying the response my words have over her body. “Come on, baby, cum all over daddy’s cock.” Her scream is inhuman and her body shakes so hard it tips me over the fucking edge.
I squeeze her throat so tight, I think she might lose consciousness. My body trembles and I moan out my own pleasure against her skin as I finally feel the hot strands of my desire slide inside of her.
My name is still on her lips, her body trembling, when I bury myself so deep inside her that she’ll feel me for days and only then do I loosen my hand from her throat, leaning close, my voice ragged but sure.
“Three was never the end, baby girl. It’s where we start.”
She collapses against the table, arms limp, chest heaving like she’s been dragged under and only just clawed her way back up.
Sweat slicks her spine, clings to my chest where I’m still pressed flush against her, refusing to give her space.
I’m still buried inside, and I don’t want to move—not when she’s pulsing around me like her body hasn’t figured out I’m finished yet.
Her cheek rests against the cool wood, eyes closed, lips parted. She looks wrecked. Beautifully, dangerously wrecked.
I drag my mouth over the curve of her shoulder, tasting salt, tasting her. My hand strokes down her side, possessive, claiming, before gripping her hip tight enough to leave marks she’ll see later. Proof.
She stirs, weakly, like she thinks she can shift away. I growl low in her ear. “Don’t even try.”
“I can’t—” Her voice is hoarse, trembling. “Dean… I can’t breathe.”
“You’re breathing just fine,” I rasp, pressing my chest harder into her back, forcing her to take the weight of me. “I can feel every fucking inhale.”
A broken laugh escapes her, sharp and unsteady, like she doesn’t know if she should laugh or cry. I smirk against her damp skin, because either way it’s mine.
Finally, I drag out of her slow, obscene, her body clenching down like it’s begging me to stay. I catch the sound she makes, half-plea, half-protest, and it stabs me right in the gut.
Her thighs tremble when I turn her around, sliding her up onto the table. She gasps, eyes fluttering open, lashes wet, lips swollen. Christ, she looks like sin itself.
I frame her face in my hands, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth where she’s bitten herself raw. “Look at you,” I murmur, rough but reverent. “Fucked out on my table. Kate’s not even cold out the door, and I’ve ruined her best friend.”
Her gaze flickers—guilt, heat, defiance, all colliding at once.
I lean in close, forehead pressing to hers, my breath still uneven. “Do you feel guilty, baby girl?” I whisper, dragging the words out like a blade. “Do you feel filthy? Because you should. You should hate me for taking you here, like this.”
Her lips part, shaking, but she doesn’t answer.
And that silence—that delicious, damning silence—tells me everything.
I cup her jaw tighter, making sure she can’t look away. “The worst part is,” I confess, voice low, “I don’t regret a fucking thing.”