Page 10 of Filthy Promises

Her voice would crack when she says,Every day for five years.

Perfect fucking answer.

I’d seat her back on the desk. I like her there—perched, poised, right where I can see all of her. I’d push those knees wide again.

And she would let me. Oh, she would fucking let me. Her thighs would part beneath my hands, white skin blooming pink where my fingers press. I’d position myself between them, the head of my cock nudging against her entrance—not penetrating yet, just testing the barrier.

Please,she’d whisper.

I’d shake my head.Five years of waiting, was it? I think you can manage thirty more seconds.

The anticipation would unravel her. Her breathing would stutter as I slid my tip through her wetness, coating myself in it. Torturing her.

When I finally pushed inside, the tightness would confirm what I already knew.

Virgin.

The resistance would give way with a small gasp that catches in her throat. I’d pause—not out of concern for her comfort,because we both know she doesn’t give a damn about that—but to savor the moment.

To lavish myself with the way her inner walls clench around me.

To revel at how her eyes go huge at the intrusion, pupils blown open with a cocktail of pain and pleasure.

Take a breath,little doe,I’d tell her.You’re going to need it.

Then I’d begin to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts that steadily increase in force. The desk would creak beneath us, my papers scattering to the floor. Her fingernails would rake down my back, leaving trails of fire.

Look at me, I’d command when her eyes flutter closed.I want you to remember who’s doing this to you.

Her lips would part in a silent scream as I hit something deep inside her. I’d capture that sound with my mouth, stealing it from her lungs, claiming all of it, all of her for myself.

You’re taking me so well. Such a brave, brave girl.

The tight heat of her would threaten to undo me, but I’d maintain control. Always in control. Always, always,alwaysin fucking control.

Until—

Until—

Until—

It ends there. Right when I want to fucking erupt, the fantasy splutters and stalls like it ran out of videotape. As if my brain refuses to conjure up the finale.

Like it wants me to go get the real thing instead.

I make a decision at once. Rash? Yes. Regrettable? Most fucking likely.

But can I do anything else?

Not a goddamn chance.

I grab my phone and text my most trusted assistant.Arrange a meeting with an employee. Rowan St. Clair.

The response comes immediately:On it, boss.

I shut down my computer and grab my jacket. The quarterly reports can wait. For the first time in months, I’m genuinely interested. Not in some model or heiress my father wants me to date, but by a marketing associate with worried eyes and a stack of medical bills.

I glance at her headshot one more time. “I’m coming, Rowan St. Clair,” I murmur. “Get ready.”

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