Page 44 of Executing Malice
I barely make it halfway to my desk when the door is thrown open behind me. I jump at the violent jingle of bells, but don’t need to turn to know he’s there.
A powerful silhouette eclipsing the sun pouring through the glass. It’s almost menacing the way he stands, blocking my escape, feet shoulder width apart. Fingers encased in leather bunched at his sides.
“What’s wrong?”
I blink at the question and struggle to compose myself.
“Nothing—”
He moves with long, quick strides. It’s so unexpected, I’m given no chance to suck in a breath before I’m lifted off my feet, tossed over his shoulder and forcibly marched to a destination I can’t see through the heavy curtain of hair falling over my face.
“Where are you taking me?” I snap.
My kidnapper says nothing as I’m carted across the room. I hear a doorknob rattle and know we’re heading into the staffroom before the darkness consumes us.
“We can’t be in here!” I hiss, and again, I’m ignored with the kick of his heel against the door.
Every drop of light vanishes, and still, he moves with purpose like he’s been back here a million times. I have and I would still walk into a wall in the dark.
Not him.
I’m dropped down on the rickety table tucked in the opposite wall from the safe.
“You’re going to get me fired,” I tell him. “You can’t be in here.”
His hands close around my face. Ten points of pressure and restraint as he drags me to him.
“Fucking need you.”
Is all I hear before his mouth finds mine.
Every thought leaves my skull before the assault. The low, desperate growl claws though me with a purpose I’m incapable of stopping as he claims my soul. As he molds me to him, parts my knees and settles between them.
He devours my mouth with the hunger of someone starved. Like I am the only anchor in a storm. He grips me, crushes me with a madness that hurts and still isn’t enough.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“Need you,” he says again, but with jagged edges of such pain I find my fingers closing in his clothes. In his hair. Gripping him like I can keep him together.
“I’m here,” I breathe into his nipping mouth.
He’s breathing hard, splintered pants that radiate with heat coming off his skin.
“Don’t go,” he pleads, fingers fisting and tearing at my skirt. “Promise me.”
I hear the rattle and jingle of his belt a second later.
I don’t stop him.
My thighs widen. My hands drag my skirt up in preparation.
“I won’t,” I murmur.
I’m pulled over the edge and turned over. A hand between my shoulder blades presses me forward, bends me across the table, straddling the sharp corner. The cold surface kisses my cheek as I’m made to spread my ankles with a nudge of his boots. My skirt is twisted and wrenched up over my back.
A weird part of me is comically amused by his proficiency when I can’t even see my hand inches from my face. He moves like a man with night vision. But my humor is short lived when my panties are shoved to one side and the cold, steel bars hit the one in my clit. In the silence, the soft clink is deafening. But it’seasily forgotten with the first sweep of his cock between my folds.
I hold my breath when he nudges my opening. Invades. My fingers curl against the smooth plastic coating the table with a moan as he stretches me. As the bars anchor against my tender channel and latches.
