Chapter Fourteen #3
The next few days are…interesting. His LA office is a fortress—two stories of glass, steel, and immaculate concrete.
The entire corner suite is made of floor-to-ceiling windows, with the sun bleaching everything it touches.
It should feel like being on display, but the truth is, no one looks up.
Everyone in this city is too busy selling their own reflection to care about anyone else's.
Asher stalks the hallways in black and white.
His staff—actual paid, grown-up professionals—scatter at the sound of his footsteps.
No one makes eye contact. The only exceptions are the handful of people who remember the company before Asher took it over.
They're the only ones he ever acknowledges by name.
Our routine is all business, at least in the building. Meetings, calls, endless email threads, all conducted at the kind of breakneck speed that makes me wonder if everyone else is moving in slow motion.
But something is different. Maybe it's the ocean air, maybe it's the afterglow of finally letting himself have something soft, or maybe he's just tired, but Asher actually answers my questions now.
Sometimes he even anticipates them, explaining his logic before I can challenge it.
He never admits it, but he's teaching me.
Training me. The unspoken implication is that when this is over, I'll know enough to walk away from him and build something of my own.
I almost believe that's what he wants…until I catch him watching me in the reflection of the windows, like he's memorizing every second. Like he knows the countdown is already on, and he's trying to sear the memory into his bones before it all goes to hell. Like he's already grieving the end.
During a meeting with half of the agents assigned to the LA office on day four, I realize just how much he's changing. Just how human he truly is.
They're hammering out details on who from the showcase will be offered representation, the whole point of this trip, and everyone is tense. I'm taking notes, but mostly watching Asher dismantle their arguments for one actor or another, piece by piece.
His phone buzzes, and he glances at the screen. He stands without a word, his mouth set in a grim line, and steps into the hall.
The meeting goes on, but I don't hear a word. I watch through the glass as Asher paces the hall outside, his jaw clenched. He runs a hand through his hair, mutters something, and then slams his fist against the wall. Not enough to break the glass, but enough that the entire window shivers.
The others notice. They trade looks, and one of the junior agents tries to crack a joke, "Guess Blackstock's not happy," but no one laughs.
I excuse myself on the pretense of needing water and follow him down the hallway. I find him in his office at the end, sitting at the desk that's all polished obsidian and chrome. His head is in his hands, the phone discarded on the desk. He doesn't look up until I close the door behind me.
For a second, I think he's going to yell at me, but instead he just leans back in the chair, closing his eyes.
"What happened?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He waits a long time before answering. When he does, his voice is flat. "The European merger's dead. They just doubled the asking price for the agency. Thomas thinks he can squeeze it out of us. I should have seen it coming."
I absorb this, waiting for the anger. Instead, I get silence.
He opens his eyes, but doesn't look at me. "I'm not my uncle," he says, like it's a confession. "He would have gotten this done. He would have made them beg to be bought out, and he'd have done it with a fucking smile on his face."
I blink, stunned. I don't think I've ever heard him say a single negative word about himself, not once.
He looks at me, and for the first time, I see the exhaustion, the doubt, the bone-deep certainty that he's doomed to disappoint.
"I promised him I'd keep it together," he says. "I promised I'd never let anyone fuck with his company. I owe him that for raising me, for leaving me everything, when he didn't have to do it."
I sit down in the chair opposite, trying to process his confession. "You can't control everything," I say.
He snorts, the sound bitter. "Haven't you heard? I'm supposed to. That's the fucking point of being in charge. I'm supposed to have the goddamn answers, to anticipate when shit is about to go sideways."
I cross the distance between us and kneel in front of his chair. "You're allowed to miss things, Asher. You're human."
He laughs, but it's not funny. "I stopped being human a long time ago. The only thing I'm good at is breaking people."
I touch his knee gently, and he stares at my hand like it's a bomb about to go off.
"You're not just that," I say. "You care. Even when you pretend not to."
He shakes his head, but I don't let go. I climb into his lap, straddling him in his fucking glass office where anyone could walk by, and kiss him hard, not waiting for permission.
He freezes at first, shocked, but then he fists his hands in my hair and kisses me back with a ferocity that nearly knocks me off his lap.
I grind down, feeling him harden beneath me. He's so tense it's like he's about to shatter. Maybe he is. Maybe he's been carrying so much for so long that he just can't do it anymore.
"Let me," I whisper.
He doesn't tell me no. Honestly, I don't think he's capable of telling me no.
I unbutton his shirt, pushing the fabric aside so I can see the tattoos, the scars, the vulnerable places he never lets anyone but me touch. I trail kisses down his throat and chest, tasting salt and sweat.
He watches me with a hunger I've never seen before, like he's starving and I'm the only thing that'll satisfy his hunger.
I sink to my knees at his feet, undo his pants, and slowly take him in my mouth. He moans, the sound soft and broken. I keep my eyes locked with his, never letting him look away.
I want to ruin him the way he's ruined me. I want him to remember this, to know he's more than just a monster.
He grips my hair, but not to control—just to hold on. His hips lift, and I pull back, letting him see the spit and precum glistening on my lips.
"You're also so fucking beautiful when you're covered in me, Brielle," he groans.
I drag my tongue from the base of his cock to the tip, slow as sin, letting my lips linger until he groans again.
I slide my palm along his thigh, feeling the muscle tremble, and then I take him back into my mouth, deeper than before.
I want to taste him, to drown in him, to see if I can make him forget the entire world for just one fucking minute.
His hands tangle in my hair, but he doesn't try to guide me. For the first time, he surrenders, letting me set the pace, letting me do this for him. I flatten my tongue and take him all the way down, choking myself until my eyes water. The burn in my throat matches the ache in my chest.
His breathing goes ragged. I hear the moan before he stifles it, biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound that might echo down the glass hallway.
But I want to hear it. I want him as desperate and wild as he makes me.
I climb back onto his lap, adjust my skirt, and impale myself on his cock. I ride him slow, holding his face in my hands so he has to look at me.
He's perfect inside me. There are no other words—just the fullness, the stretch, the dizzying pressure where my body meets his. But it's the way he looks at me that does it. Like he's been starved for a thousand years, and I'm the only thing he wants.
Every time I sink down, his eyes burn, and his hands flex on my hips, but he doesn't force me. He lets me ride him, lets me take exactly what I want, even when I know every cell in him is begging to flip me over and fuck me through the desk.
"You're so beautiful," I whisper. It's not even a line. It's the brutal fucking truth. He is so goddamn beautiful.
He makes a sound—a soft, broken thing that's more animal than human. I grip the back of his chair and rock against him, slow and deep, savoring how perfectly we fit. How good this feels.
He tries to bite back his own pleasure, but every time I clench around him, he shudders, like he's barely holding on.
"God, you feel so good," I gasp, leaning forward until my lips are at his ear. "I want the whole office to hear us, Asher. I want them to know that I'm yours."
He snaps. There's no warning, just him wresting control away as he slams me down on him, every thrust brutal and perfect.
"Yes," I moan, not trying to be quiet. "Yes, Asher."
He spreads me wide, using my juices to soak his hand before he pushes two fingers inside my ass.
I clench around him, choking on his name.
"Say it again," he growls, adding a third finger, stretching me until I see stars. "Tell me whose good little slut you are, princess."
"Yours," I moan. "I'm your little slut."
He bites my shoulder, leaving marks, but he never looks away, not even when he wraps his hand around my throat, choking me.
He squeezes, hard enough to make black bloom at the edges of my vision, and then he fucks up into me, brutal and perfect.
Every thrust slams me harder onto his lap, his cock buried so deep I can't even form words.
Heat pulses through e. My lips are numb, my throat raw with the effort it takes just to take in a sliver of air around the pressure of his palm.
His other hand works my ass, stretching me. God, he's got his whole hand buried in me now, and the burn is so intense I nearly sob from it.
My body doesn't know where to focus, doesn't know which pain or pleasure to process first. I want to claw at his hand, to plead for oxygen, but I don't. I just take it, riding him even harder, desperate for the next jagged gasp of air.
"You like being fucked like this?" he growls, his lips right at my ear. "You like choking on my cock, on my hand, like you're nothing but a pretty little toy?"
I can't answer. I can't do anything but nod and whimper, my whole body shaking as he pounds into me, the slap of skin loud in the silence. Everyone out there could hear if they tried. If they cared.
"Good girl," he says, the praise detonating something inside me. I clench down on him, every muscle tight. He groans in response, the sound real and unguarded.
He lets go of my throat, and the rush of oxygen nearly knocks me out. I arch back, mouth open, chest heaving, so alive it hurts.
He grabs my hair, yanking my head so I have to look straight at him.
He wants to see me break.
He wants to see every second of it.
He doesn't slow down. He fucks me as hard as he ever has, pushing and pulling at my body like he's trying to yank out my soul.
My orgasm is a slow, grinding thing—it builds in little waves, never letting up, never cresting, just growing and growing until it's all I am.
Every thrust, every choke, every filthy word he spits in my ear just drives it deeper.
"Come for me," he snarls, and I do, my body convulsing around him, my vision going white.
I try to scream, but nothing comes out. All I can do is claw at his chest, dig my nails into his skin, and ride the aftershocks as they tear me apart.
He doesn't let me come down. He scoops me up off his lap, manhandling me onto the desk, and bends me over it so my face is pressed to the cool black glass.
"Don't fucking move," he growls.
I don't. I couldn't if I wanted to.
He wrenches my skirt up around my waist, spreading my legs wide, then shoves his cock back inside me, fucking me with the same relentless, punishing rhythm. I'm so wet I can hear every brutal thrust. I think I might die, but I want it. I want every second of it.
He leans over me, his chest plastered to my back, one hand on my hip and the other still clutching my hair. He bites the side of my neck hard enough to leave a mark, and then spits pure poison in my ear.
"You want all of me, don't you? You want to be filled in both holes again, you perfect fucking whore?"
I whimper in response, and he laughs, a wicked sound that rings with something wild.
"Then beg," he says, grinding his cock into me while his fingers work my ass, still deep, still stretching me open.
"Please," I gasp. "Please, Asher. I want it. I want you to fuck my ass, please."
He pulls out of my pussy, and the emptiness is almost as devastating as the pressure was. He lines his cock up with my other hole, pushing the spit-slick tip against the tight ring, and then shoves inside, slow at first, then all at once.
The pain is brutal for a split second, and then it's all pleasure, all fullness, all him.
He's thicker than his fingers, so much thicker, and he knows it.
He fucks my ass with slow, deliberate thrusts, letting me feel every inch, every ridge and vein.
My whole body is on fire, hypersensitive, nerves raw and exposed.
I don't know if I can survive another orgasm, but it's building anyway, a wicked, hot thing in my stomach.
He grabs my hand and drags it down between my thighs, forcing my fingers into my pussy. "Touch yourself," he hisses. "Finger yourself while I use your ass. Let me feel you come again."
I do it because I would do anything for him, anything to keep this feeling. My fingers slip inside. I rub my clit with the heel of my palm, desperate and greedy for more.
"Good girl," he says again, and I come almost immediately, my body clenching tight.
He doesn't stop. He thrusts his own fingers in next to mine, stretching me open. He fucks my ass like he owns it, like nothing else will ever compare, working my cunt at the same time, until I'm sobbing, ruined, gone.
He comes with a roar, his hips jerking, hot as fire as he fills me up. I can feel him pulsing inside me, every spurt a new brand on my body, a new claim.
He pulls out slowly, then bends over and bites my shoulder, soothing it with his tongue. "Mine," he says, and I nod, limp and spent and fucking happy to let him have me.
We don't move for a long time.
When he finally straightens, he cleans us up and then tucks himself away before helping me stand. My legs tremble, barely able to hold my weight, but he catches me, his hands gentle.
I rest my forehead against his, both of us panting.
"You're perfect," he says, his voice cracking.
"So are you," I whisper, meaning it.
"Don't ever leave me," he whispers, stroking my hair, and I don't know if it's a request or a plea.
I don't think it matters either way. I can't deny the truth anymore. I'll never be ready for this to end. Not ever.
He has all of me—every single piece.