Chapter 31
“ Y ou are in so much trouble, Charlie Winslow.” He looked at me with mock outrage and the kind of barely-contained lust that said he was already planning how to punish me.
“First at the breakfast table, playing footsie with my dick while I explained legal details to your brother. And now this.”
“You’re complaining about the best blow job of your life?” I said innocently, smoothing my shirt like I hadn’t just been on my knees five minutes ago making him forget his name.
“Oh no,” I gasped, dramatically clutching my chest. “Fitzgerald’s got his starched designer boxers in a bunch. ”
“They’re Italian, thank you.”
“I bet they’re monogrammed.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I do know,” I said smugly. “I literally saw them around your ankles while I was—what was it again? Oh right. Surprising you.”
His ears turned pink. I grinned like the devil. And then, in the next second I was airborne.
One second I was perched on the edge of his bed, smirking, still tasting triumph on my tongue—and the next, he lifted me like I weighed nothing, one fluid motion that made me gasp and grab at his shoulders, my legs kicking instinctively as he carried me the few steps to his desk.
“Fitz—”
“Shh,” he said, his mouth brushing my ear, his voice low and smug. “Naughty girls don’t get to give speeches.”
He set me down facing the desk, his body pressing tight behind mine, caging me in with heat and muscle and intent. Then he took one arm and pressed gently on my upper back, guiding me forward, slow but firm.
I let him.
I folded over the desk, my forearms flat on the cool wood, my breath catching as I felt the shirt—his shirt—slide open just slightly, baring the curve of one breast to the air.
He slid his hands up my thighs and my skin went electric.
The hem of the button-down bunched in his fists. Then he tugged it upward, until it was gathered above my hips, leaving my ass completely bare to the room, to him, to the afternoon light streaming through the window.
He stepped back just enough to look.
Then— God —his hand slid over my ass, big and warm and slow.
He snuck a finger under the string of my thong and gently pulled it up, letting it gently snap my skin when he let go.
And then he rubbed gently, lazily, like he was memorizing the curve of my cheeks, like I was something he’d paid for and now wanted to savor. I wiggled slightly.
“Impatient?” he murmured.
I opened my mouth to sass him, and that’s when he spanked me. Once. A sharp little smack that didn’t hurt—it just echoed . A hot pulse shot straight to my core.
“Oh my god ,” I said, laughing, twisting to glare at him—but he wasn’t standing anymore.
He’d dropped into the desk chair, legs spread, eyes dark with delight as he leaned forward and kissed the very spot he’d just marked—soft lips on warmed skin, a reverent seal of ownership.
Then his hands were on my waist, guiding, tugging, and with one slow pull, he spun me and brought me down to straddle his lap, facing him now, knees hooked over the arms of the chair, chest still heaving from the sudden repositioning. “See?” he said, mouth brushing mine. “This is much better.”
““Yeah, but now you have me hot and— fuck, Fitz, we can’t just fuck all day. We have things to do. Important things!”
“First off, fucking is an important thing. A very important thing,” he said, his hands sliding up my thighs like they were his favorite subject of study. “Critical, even. Arguably vital to our health.”
Then he kissed me—slow and deep and smug as hell—and pulled back just enough to murmur, “Secondly, what do you want to accomplish today, sweetheart? I’ll help you—after I’ve made you come at least one more time.”
I was trying to talk about productivity.
About goals and responsibility and plans .
But Fitz had his fingers in the crease between my thigh and groin, and my brain had completely left the chat.
He wasn’t even touching me yet. Not really.
Just dragging one slow finger along the edge of my underwear, teasing the skin just to the side of where I was throbbing, tracing lazy circles into the hollow of my hip like he was bored .
“Fitz,” I warned, breath catching. “I’m serious. We can’t just— Oh God ,” I cut off because now his finger was sliding lower. Still outside my panties. Still not where I needed.
“Well we also need to have a conversation,” he continued, perfectly calm while I vibrated in his lap, “because you never answered my questions.”
“What questions?”
His thumb was moving now, brushing over the sheer fabric. Featherlight. Almost ticklish.
“Yesterday,” he said. “You asked me what I liked in bed. What I fantasize about. What gets me off.”
He slid the tip of his index finger under the edge of my panties—just an inch, not enough—and circled right where my thigh met the heat between my legs. “We got distracted. But now I want to know your answers.”
I blinked at him.
“What kind of porn do you watch?” he asked, like he was inquiring about my skincare routine. “What gets you going when it’s just you and your hand in the dark?”
“Fitz—”
“Tell me,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the curve of my jaw. “What do you like?” His finger dipped lower, just enough to graze the softest part of me through the fabric. I gasped.
“Are you a slow build girl?” he asked. “Sensual kissing, soft moans, lots of teasing? Or do you skip to the part where someone’s pinned and begging?”
“Depends,” I breathed, hips already shifting forward.
He grinned. “Yeah?” His hand finally cupped me through the panties, palm warm and broad and unforgivably still.
“I like build-up,” I whispered. “But I also like...filth.”
“What kind of filth?”
I blushed. His grin sharpened.
“Come on, Winslow,” he said, fingers finally— finally —slipping beneath the fabric. “Tell me what you want.” His fingers found my folds, wet and ready. He didn’t slide in—just spread me with an obscene gentleness, middle finger stroking once, slow and shallow, over the soaked seam of my pussy.
“I—oh fuck?—”
“Come on,” he coaxed, lips brushing my ear now. “Tell me what you think about when you come.”
“Sometimes...sometimes I like watching girls get eaten out,” I said, half-gasp, half-confession. “From behind. Tongue deep. Like the guy needs it.”
His finger circled my clit once. Just once. I bucked. “What else?” he whispered.
“Fingers,” I said, panting now. “Two, sometimes three. Holding me open. Making me feel full. ”
His breath hitched. “Jesus.”
“And—” I broke off, head tipping back, “—sometimes I think about being tied down.”
His eyes darkened. I added, even as my thighs trembled. “Like...not being able to move while someone makes me come.”
He slipped two fingers inside me so slowly it felt like a reward. “You’re so fucking wet,” he murmured, kissing the underside of my jaw. “Your own confessions are turning you on.”
“No,” I whispered. “You are.”
He crooked his fingers and rubbed, hitting just the right spot inside me. But he didn’t stop the questioning. Not yet. “What haven’t you had yet?” he murmured, fingers massaging slow and deep. “What haven’t you tried that you want ?”
My voice was breaking, hips grinding helplessly in his lap. “I don’t—know?—”
“Yes, you do,” he said, mouth grazing mine, breath hot and ragged. “The thing you’ve thought about but never said. Say it now. Say it to me. ”
And fuck, I might’ve. But then his thumb slid over my clit and I rocketed off the planet, stars behind my eyelids, spine arching, body ready to explode?—
He stopped. Pulled his hand back just enough. Fingers still inside me but still. Cruel. My breath caught, wrecked.
“You don’t come,” he said, voice low and calm like he wasn’t torturing me, “until you fess up.”
“Fitz—”
He crooked his fingers ever so slightly. My toes curled. “Tell me what you want, Winslow,” he murmured. “Tell me what you think about. And you’ll come so hard, I’ll make you forget your name.”
I buried my face in his neck, mortified and aching. “I want…” My voice shook. “I want to be in control, you at my mercy. ”
He stilled.
“I want to be on top,” I whispered. “But not just riding. I want to run it. Decide everything.”
His breath hitched.
“I want to edge you. Hold you there. Make you beg. I want to watch your face when you’re desperate and twitching and still not allowed to come.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And then when you finally do—” I was panting now, the words spilling out, wet and raw and real, “—when you’re all fucked out and oversensitive and can barely move, I want to keep touching you.”
He groaned, forehead pressing hard against mine.
“I want to hear that laugh,” I said, voice soft now, “the one guys make when you palm the tip of their dick after they’ve come and they’re too sensitive and it tickles and hurts at the same time, but they’re still hard and they’re caught between wanting you to stop and not wanting to make you. ”
He made a sound that wasn’t a word—just wreckage. “I want that. ” I said, breath catching on the confession. “I want to make you laugh like that. Right before you beg me to stop. Or maybe beg me not to.”
He looked at me like I’d just snapped the last nerve he had. His mouth dropped to mine, all teeth and heat, and his voice was ragged when he finally said it: “You’re going to fucking ruin me.”
He looked at me like I’d broken something in him. And then he kissed me—hard, filthy, grateful—and his hand started moving again inside me.
Two fingers, deep and slow, curled up perfectly on the drag back, grazing that spot that made my vision shimmer every time he touched it. I moaned into his mouth.
His other hand slid down between us. I felt him pause. Then— spit. Hot. Wet. Slick. He rubbed it between his fingers for one second before pressing them against my clit, spreading the moisture and starting slow, maddening circles.
I arched, crying out, thighs trembling around his hips. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice like sin and satin. “You tell me your filth, I give you your reward.”
His fingers thrust deep again—two long, elegant fingers dragging hard on the way out, curling just right, hitting that soft, spongy patch inside me that made my hips buck and my eyes roll back.
And his other hand never stopped circling my clit—steady, wet, relentless. Not fast. Not frantic. Perfect.
My body went taut, breath punching out of my lungs as he fucked me slow and sure with his fingers, like he was savoring every squeeze of my cunt around them.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “You like that? You want to come on my fingers, baby?”
I nodded—wild, frantic, incoherent.
His mouth brushed my temple. “Then come for me, Charlie. Just like that. Show me what it looks like when you come apart on me.”
He curled his fingers again— deep —and pressed down with his thumb just right, and I—shattered. My whole body clenched around him, a cry tearing from my throat, my muscles locking as waves of heat and pleasure rolled through me, blinding, hot, unbearable in the best way.
He didn’t stop. He held me there. Fingers still moving inside, slow and deep, thumb keeping just enough pressure to drag every last second out of it.
I gasped, clawed at his shoulders, shook against him like I might unravel entirely. “Fuck,” I whimpered, voice breaking. “Fitz—oh my god?—”
“I’ve got you,” he said, kissing the corner of my mouth. “I’ve got you, Charlie.”
And he did. Right there in his lap, shaking, soaking his hand, crying his name—he had all of me.