15. Abigail #2
And I know that’s the end of it.
My body screams for him, but his words land like a lock turning in a door.
His breath is rough, ragged, like he’s holding something back. He looks down at me like he’s already imagining how I’ll fall apart for him.
“But I’ll take care of you,” he says, his hand sliding up the inside of my thigh. “If you ask nicely.”
I don’t hesitate. I don’t think.
“Please.”
He groans, low and raw, his fingers just barely brushing over the heat between my legs before he sinks to his knees.
The shift in power is immediate. Dizzying.
He looks up at me, eyes dark and hungry, hands gripping my thighs as he spreads me open like he owns the right. His breath skates over my skin, hot and teasing, and then—
His tongue hits me.
The first lick is deliberately slow. A stroke that drags through me like he has all the time in the world and every intention of ruining me with it.
A whimper slips out before I can stop it. My hips jerk forward, searching for more.
He starts to work me properly then. His tongue is slick, warm, and ruthless, tracing every contour.
He’s learned my body. He knows every weakness, every pressure point that makes me come undone.
“You taste like heaven,” he says, dragging his tongue lower, then back up with maddening precision.
I’m already on the edge when his fingers slide in—just once—and I come.
The orgasm tears through me, sudden and violent.
My thighs clamp around his head, but he doesn’t stop.
He holds me open, tongue relentless, dragging me through every last pulse until I’m shaking, gasping, soaked, my vision swimming.
Only when I have nothing left does he finally rise and kiss me.
I taste myself on his lips.
Something about it. The calm in him. The quiet intensity. The fact that he hasn’t lost control. It makes me ache in places I didn’t know could want more.
He sinks into his chair, breathing hard, eyes shut like he’s reining himself in.
But I’m not done.
I step off the desk, smooth my skirt, and sink to my knees between his legs.
His eyes open. His jaw clenches. He knows exactly what I’m about to do.
Still, he shakes his head once, slow.
“You know the rule,” he says. “You have to be mine.”
“That’s for sex,” I say. “I’m not asking for that.”
My hand slides up his thigh. He’s rock hard beneath the fabric, the heat of him radiating through it, pulsing with tension. His restraint hums just under the surface, every muscle locked tight. If he turns me down now, it might be the single most brutal display of self-control I’ve ever seen.
He leans in. Brushes my hair back with one hand, fingers gentle. His thumb grazes my cheek, then drags across my lower lip. I kiss it, then part my lips and draw it into my mouth. I suck slowly, letting my tongue swirl against the pad of his thumb.
That’s all it takes.
His eyes close for half a second. When they open again, they’ve darkened. Hunger floods every inch of him. It’s still controlled, but only just.
I reach for his belt, fingers steady as I undo the buckle with a soft metallic click. He spreads his knees wider, opening up for me, surrendering. Letting me take control.
When I free him, I can’t help the gasp.
God, he’s magnificent. Thick and heavy in my palm, the crown already slick with need.
Every inch of him is heat and hunger, the kind of cock that ruins you in the best possible way.
The weight of him makes my pulse stutter. My thighs clench, helpless, trying to ease the slick ache blooming between them.
I wrap my fingers around him, stroking slow, firm, teasing. I watch him. The way his brow twitches. The tension carving into his jaw. The restraint as he fists the armrests, trying not to thrust. Trying to let me take my time.
I lower my mouth to him, taking him in slowly, inch by inch.
My tongue glides along the underside, tracing the thick, pulsing vein, savoring the way he jerks beneath the touch.
When I pull back, I circle the head with a slow swirl of my tongue, teasing, tasting.
“You’re killing me,” he groans, hips twitching toward my mouth.
I hum around him, dragging a deep sound from my throat.
His head drops back against the leather chair. His breath is ragged now, uneven. I hollow my cheeks and pull him deeper, swallowing around the thick stretch of him. There’s no way I can take all of him, but I try. His cock throbs against my tongue.
I keep working him slowly. Every stroke of my mouth is measured, every flick of my tongue meant to test his control.
His thighs flex under my hands. He’s trembling. On edge.
“I’m not gonna last.”
Good.
I moan around him, and that’s all it takes.
He breaks.
His hips jerk once, then again. A curse rips from his throat, low and raw, like it’s been buried too long. His release hits hard, spilling into my mouth in deep, pulsing waves. I take it all, swallowing without hesitation, eyes locked on his as he comes apart for me.
When I finally pull back, I drag my tongue along the base of him. He shudders like even that soft touch is too much.
I rise without a word, smooth my skirt and begin fastening the buttons of my blouse.
He watches, still catching his breath. Still wrecked.
Then he reaches for me, arms gentle but sure, and pulls me into his lap.
“Is there anything you’re not good at?” he asks.
“Plenty.”
“I’ve yet to see proof.” His smirk is slow and satisfied, pure heat softened by awe. “I’ll grab dinner and meet you at your place.”
I lean in and kiss along his jaw, lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
“Alright.”