Page 48 of Filthy Little Fix
He grunts, pulling me closer by the thighs. "You're fucking tight."
He moves. How much I've fantasized about this is ridiculous—I want him to fuck me fast, deep, and I want it to hurt.
Each thrust sends a wave of pleasure through my body. I grab the edges of the desk, feeling his cock buried deep inside me. I groan. Too loud for such thin walls.
"Shut the fuck up," he orders. He leans over me and says, in that low, threatening tone I love, "Behind that door, there's a room full of capos. Do you think they won't notice you screaming for me to fuck you?"
I flinch. I like the idea of them hearing me—and he definitely felt it.
He gives another thrust, even deeper.
"What's wrong, Nyx? Do youwantthem to hear you begging me to fuck you harder?"
Yes. I do. But I revere him. I do whatever he wants me to do.
I bite my own hand hard, digging my teeth into the skin of my palm. The pain is familiar—I associate it with him, with his touch. I like it. He grunts as my body contracts around him.
"Fuck, Nyx," he murmurs. "You really like pain, don't you...?"
Each thrust hits my prostate. The metallic taste of blood begins to fill my mouth, and it only makes me harder. I feel the blood run down my mouth, falling down my neck, soaking my collar.
The pressure increases. I bite harder, and the skin has already given way, the cut is deep.
"Come for me, Nyx," he growls with how much I can contract for him. "Come for me, you little slut."
The insult is what makes me come.
My mind goes blank, and the only thing that matters is the sensation of him moving inside me. I contract around him, and he grunts with pleasure, exploding in me in a wave of pure ecstasy.
The pleasure is so intense that I feel empty.
It takes a while for me to get my bearings again. I'm not breathing properly, and the burning in my palm, when I stop biting it, still intensifies. I watch the blood run, the involuntary tremor of my hand, and he stays, too, until he catches his breath.
He's the first to move. He pulls back, sliding out of me, and shoves himself back into his pants.
I don't move. I watch him. It's a sight worthy of worship. He, fully dressed and composed, while I am a bloody, panting mess on his desk.
He walks silently to the side table in the office. He grabs one of those smoky whiskeys and pours it slowly into one of the crystal glasses.
"I hate you," he says suddenly. "I hate what you do to me."
I smile. I don't get up from the desk. "What do I do to you, mister?"
"This." He doesn't need to elaborate. This, the mess on top of his desk. He picks up the glass of whiskey and turns to me, with a stillness that is difficult to find on his face. "I can't think straight when you're around."
"What do you think about, mister?"
He stares at me with hatred. I love it.
"You know what I think about."
"No, I don't," I provoke. "Tell me."
He barely drinks the whiskey—he abandons the glass on the table where he got it, and comes closer to me. He leans in. Grabsmy chin, not caring about the blood, and forces me closer, his face inches away from mine. "I think about fucking that smart mouth of yours, Leonel. That should shut you up."
He lets me go with a sharp push.
I exhale.
