Third Crossing #3
He fucks me harder for it, each thrust a threat and a promise. “You want to lose control so fucking bad, Evie. Let go. I want to see you splinter.”
“Don’t stop,” I gasp, knowing what it means. Knowing he’ll tear me apart, and I want that. I want to be ruined by this, rebuilt only from the atoms he leaves behind.
He grunts, a primal, unguarded sound, and his other hand smashes down on my lower back, pinning me even harder, thighs shaking and ass bruised against the unyielding desk.
I ride every battering jolt, all the hate and heat and endless ache, and then I go off, pussy spasming so hard I can barely see, the blinding white flooding every sense and shorting out my voice.
My orgasm shreds me. I sob through it, the sound as ugly and raw as the rest of this.
He holds me there, locked in the tremor, cock jammed so deep I feel the outline of him in my chest, and I realize: he’s going to come inside me and I don’t care. I don’t want him to pull out. I want the evidence buried inside me the way it is in the paper I’m crushing under my hands.
He holds the moment a split second past reason, heat flooding out of him, pulse for pulse, until we’re both trembling.
I whine and bite at the air, and in the ragged silence that follows, I realize my knees are half off the floor, toes barely finding purchase, my body a puppet hung on his cock and his will.
He pulls out, slow, thick, a ribbon of white dragging my raw inside with it. I’m still clenching. My ribs and thighs vibrate, the aftershocks so sharp they border on pain.
Alessandro hoists me up, palms rough under my arms, and hauls me upright onto the desk, legs left dangling, pussy still spasming around the evidence he left leaking out of me.
I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t even see, tears streaked down my cheek, mouth still full of spit and ache, blood at the corner of my lip from when I bit down too hard.
I look at the files, at the ruin of them, at the stain blooming out from under my ass.
“Open,” he says, and it’s not a request but a conjuring. Something that bypasses my brain and plugs straight into the animal.
I open my legs. He kneels, and the heat of his breath nearly undoes me. His hands hook under my thighs, spreading me so wide I hear my own muscles protest, and then his face is buried against my pussy, nose pressed straight into the aftermath like he wants to inhale my crime scene.
His tongue is hot, wide, insistent. He licks me open, devours the wreckage he left inside. The sounds are as obscene as the act, wet, slick, raw. He groans when he tastes his own cum leaking out, sucks it like he wants to own the mess, every drop a second signature.
My nerves are gone, but somehow I’m even more exposed.
I can’t defend myself. Not from him. Not from the way my body obeys, knees quaking, toes curling against his back.
His hands hold me open, thumbs spreading my lips so his tongue can rake over my clit, unrelenting, until all the edges of pain and pleasure fray together.
I can hear my own heartbeat in the roof of my mouth, the hammering echo of what he’s scraping out of me. He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t orchestrate. There’s no game left; I’m not a threat or an asset, I’m just a body to be wrung out until it forgets itself.
And fuck, I do forget myself.
My hips stutter up, thighs closing on his skull, desperate to both escape and keep him there forever.
He growls into me, vibration shredding my last defenses.
I come so hard, my vision whites out, a flatline that wipes the desk, the room, the world, leaving just the shock of my pussy and his mouth making a new universe out of nothing.
I collapse backward, head cracking the desk.
There’s no pain, only static, only the fractal aftershocks running the length of my body.
I can feel everything now, every scrape and bruise, every breath and spill.
I catch sight of my own hands, the fingers curled beside my hips, nails scored deep into skin, splayed like I’m trying to anchor myself in gravity.
A high, delirious laugh barks from me, uncaged, and the sound registers: that was me. That was all my own.
Alessandro rises, slow and deliberate. His face is slick with me and with himself. Mouth red, chin shining, a grotesque decoration that he wears without shame. For a second, I expect a smile, but what I get is a gaze so black and consuming, it sucks the air from my lungs.
He stands between my knees, hands mapping my thighs, thumbs pressing new bruises in their path. When he speaks, his voice is so quiet I have to strain through the thump of blood in my skull to hear it.
“You’re so much more dangerous than I thought,” he murmurs.
My tongue barely works. Puffy, raw, like it’s been fighting an entire war. I cough out a sound. Realize I’m still choking slightly on saliva, on those last few gasped breaths.
“I guess you should have picked a better lock,” I choke out.
“Evie Brennan,” he says, “you are going to be the death of me.”