4. Luka #2
I look at the phone still clutched in her hand. “Does he make you blush like this?”
Her laugh is brittle. “That’s none of your business.”
“Another honest answer disguised as defiance.”
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Then what is this?” she asks.
I meet her gaze and decide, for once, not to lie. “A problem.”
The room breathes with us.
Her voice is barely above a whisper now. “For you?”
“For both of us.”
She looks down for one second, then back up, stubborn even now. “You keep saying that like I did something to you.”
“You did.”
The room is so quiet I can hear the soft hum of the lights overhead, the distant movement beyond the glass walls, the slow rhythm of her breathing.
I walk right up to her, so close I can smell her scent, sweet and intoxicating.
I lift my hand and touch her jaw with two fingers, not gently enough to be kind, not hard enough to be cruel. Her breath catches. She doesn’t pull away. She leans into it by the smallest degree, and that small surrender does more damage to me than any explicit message could.
“You understand what you are asking for?” I say.
She continues to remain silent, her fingers curling around the wooden desk.
“I’m not a child anymore, Luka. You can’t bully me,” she breathes, but her pupils are dilated.
Fuck, she wants me.
“No,” I say, and let my gaze travel over her face, the curve of her mouth, the pulse fluttering at her throat. “You are not.”
Her eyes darken. But I don’t kiss her.
I want to, which is precisely why I don’t.
A kiss is not simple. A kiss represents tenderness. It opens doors I have spent years keeping barred.
What I’m about to do is already dangerous enough.
I take the notebook from her hand and place it beside the tablet. Then I turn her gently until her back meets the edge of the conference table.
I put one hand at her waist.
Her breath catches. Still, she does not move away.
My other hand slides to the back of her thigh, just above her knee. Her lashes flutter once, and her hand grips my forearm, not to push me away but to steady herself. That small touch does more damage to my restraint than any word could have.
I lift her.
She gives a small, startled sound as I set her on the edge of the conference table, her skirt riding up just enough to reveal the smooth line of her thighs.
Her hands go behind her, palms flat against the polished wood.
She’s sitting on the table where men twice her age spent the last hour discussing money and power, and she looks more dangerous than all of them combined.
I stand between her knees.
She looks at me like she knows she should stop this, but she does nothing.
I move slowly, deliberately, my hands resting on her knees first, then sliding higher.
Her thighs tense beneath my palms. Her breathing changes, uneven now, shallow enough that I can see the rise and fall of her chest beneath her dress.
I push the hem upward.
Inch by inch.
Her fingers curl against the table, but she opens for me before I have to make her. The movement is slight, almost shy, but unmistakable. Her knees part. Her gaze stays locked on mine, embarrassed and heated and too proud to look away.
The last of my patience fractures.
I lower myself in front of her.
Her body goes still for one suspended second as she realizes exactly what I intend to do.
Then her thighs part wider.
No protest. No hesitation.
Only that silent, trembling permission that sends something dark and possessive through my chest.
I hook my fingers into her underwear and draw it down her legs. Slowly at first, because I want to watch her realize there’s no pretending after this. The delicate fabric slips past her knees, her calves, her ankles. I place it in my jacket pocket without taking my eyes off her.
Her lips part. No words come.
Good. Words would ruin this.
I grip her thighs and pull her closer to the edge of the table.
Her body slides toward me over the polished wood, and her hands fly back for balance. Her dress gathers around her hips. Her head tips slightly, breath catching, eyes bright with the last fragile thread of control she has left.
I break it with my mouth.
The first taste of her pussy hits me hard enough that I have to close my eyes.
She’s wet. Hot. Already soft and slick against my tongue, the intimate truth of her body laid bare beneath all that pride and sarcasm. I drag my tongue through her slowly, from the wet heat of her entrance up to her clit, and her entire body jerks like she has been struck.
Her thighs try to close around my head.
I hold them open. Firm and unforgiving.
She makes a sound then, low and shocked, and it goes straight through me. I look up once, just enough to see her head tipped back, her mouth open, one hand gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles have gone pale.
I lick her again. Slower this time.
I find her clit with the flat of my tongue and circle it deliberately, learning the first helpless rhythm of her body.
Her hips lift toward my mouth before she can stop them.
There’s nothing polished about it. Nothing clever.
Just need. Pure, trembling need, and I feel it in the way she rolls against my tongue, in the way her breath breaks apart above me.
I don’t speak. I don’t have to. My hands tell her enough.
One grips her thigh. The other presses low across her stomach, holding her down when she starts to squirm. She’s too sensitive already, too close to losing the composure she’s trying so desperately to keep, and the knowledge makes something dark and satisfied move through me.
I close my lips around her clit and suck gently.
Her body bows off the table.
A broken sound tears out of her, and she slaps one hand over her mouth.
I catch her wrist without lifting my head and pin it beside her hip.
I go back to her clit, licking it with steady pressure, then softer, then harder again, forcing her body to chase the rhythm.
She trembles beneath me, thighs shaking against my hands.
Her heels scrape against the table’s edge.
Her fingers twist in my hair, tentative at first, then desperate, pulling me closer like she has forgotten she ever meant to resist.
I slide two fingers into her.
Her wetness takes them easily, but the tight heat of her clenches around me the second I push inside. I have to pause for half a breath, jaw locked, because the feel of her around my fingers while my mouth is on her clit is almost enough to make me lose the one boundary I have left.
I curl my fingers inside her, searching by feel, by the way her breathing stutters, by the way her hips twitch when I find the spot that makes her grip my hair harder.
There. I stroke it again.
Her whole body tightens.
I keep my mouth on her clit while my fingers move inside her, slow and deep at first, then more deliberate. Her thighs are shaking now, no dignity left in the way she opens for me, in the way she presses closer, in the way she tries to take more without asking for it.
She’s soaked against my mouth.
I taste all of it. Every slick, needy part of her.
The thought this was supposed to be for another man burns through me again, hot enough to sharpen my focus into cruelty. I suck her clit harder, then ease back to flick it with my tongue, keeping my fingers moving in that exact rhythm that makes her breath come apart.
Her back arches. Her head turns against the table.
The room is full of the sounds she’s trying and failing to swallow: breath, soft gasps, the wet movement of my fingers inside her, the helpless little whimper she makes every time my tongue returns to her clit.
She’s close. And I feel it before she does.
Her body goes tense under my hands. Her thighs press against my shoulders.
Her pussy clenches around my fingers, tight and pulsing, trying to pull me deeper.
I keep her pinned in place and don’t let up.
My mouth stays on her clit, relentless now, tongue working her through the last fragile thread of control.
Her hand tightens in my hair hard enough to hurt. I welcome it.
Then she breaks.
Her hips jerk against my mouth, her body arching off the conference table as a strangled sound leaves her throat. Her pussy pulses around my fingers, wet and tight, and I keep licking her clit through every wave until the pleasure turns too much and she starts trembling uncontrollably beneath me.
Only then do I slow.
I soften my tongue against her, drawing out the last aftershocks, feeling her shake and gasp and try weakly to close her thighs. I let her, for a moment. Then I press one final kiss to the inside of her thigh, away from the swollen, oversensitive heat of her, and withdraw my fingers.
She lies there wrecked and breathing hard, dress bunched at her hips, hair loosened around her face, eyes unfocused when they finally find mine.
I rise slowly. My mouth is wet with her.
Her gaze drops to it before she can stop herself.
For one dangerous second, I think she wants me to kiss her.
But I don’t. I just take out my handkerchief and clean my fingers with steady hands, because steadiness is the only lie I have left. Then I lower her dress myself, covering what I’ve just ruined, and lean close to her ear.
“I simply gave you a taste of your own fantasy.”