Page 55 of The Darkest Hour

“There was no intimacy, no touching,” I sighed. “I felt less like a lover and more like an object to him.”

Boring.

I returned to resting my head against Havoc, my mind drifted back to my last encounter with Paris.

I could see it vividly—Paris’s elegant office in London, dimly lit by the flicker of a single lamp.

The heavy scent of cedarwood filled the air.

Paris seated behind his large mahogany desk, and his sharp eyes watching me as I entered, dressed as he had instructed.

The high-collared nun outfit barely hugged my body, the black fabric swaying with my movement.

And as always, he didn’t say a word, just motioned for me to come closer.

And I walked towards him.

The power dynamics were always clear with Paris, and I had grown accustomed to the predictable way he exerted his control.

Right before reaching the desk, he stood up and came over to me.

And his hands were gentle but firm as he guided me to the edge of the desk, positioning me just where he wanted.

My breath always hitched as he lifted the black dress up, barely exposing my thighs to the cool air.

Silently, Paris gently slipped my panties to the side and then unzipped his trousers.

Even now on this raft, I could hear the sound of the zipper, for some odd reason that always sent a shiver down my spine.

The hat he wore cast a shadow over his eyes, but I could feel his gaze, intense and focused on me.

Meanwhile, he never wasted any time once he pulled his cock out of the hole the opened zipper made.

I often wondered if the edge of the zipper hurt his length when he fucked me and if he welcomed that pain.

Regardless, always with one swift motion, he entered me, and his strokes were controlled and deliberate enough to make me gasp and grip the edge of the desk for support.

The whole time he watched me.

Then, the familiar rhythm would begin. Paris’s thrusts deep and steady, igniting my body with pleasure.

And although he remained fully clothed with his body pressing against mine, the fabric of his suit rubbed against the sensitive skin of my thighs, tantalizing my senses.

The desk always creaked under us and Paris’s breath always came in measured, controlled gasps.

His control was absolute.

And when Paris’s pace quickened, his grip on my hips tightened and the edge of the desk always bit into my thighs.

Yet, the discomfort only added to the intensity.

Havoc spoke, pulling me out of the vision. “Did you love it when Paris fucked you?”

The rain began to lesson.

I looked back at him and saw the lust rising in his gaze.

Had Havoc been envisioning Paris and I fucking in his mind?

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