Page 8 of Love Me Darkly
His date looked him over with raised eyebrows when he swung open the door. Her blue eyes took in the black T-shirt molded to his chest and arms and sweatpants sitting low on his hips—as well as the prominent protrusion of his cock, which already stood at full mast. She wore a baby pink dress that clung to her curves and fell low enough in the front to reveal the tattoo etched between her tits.
“Mateo, right?” she said, as he stood aside to let her in. “I’m Christine.”
He didn’t give a fuck what her name was, but kept that to himself. “Did you bring them?”
She dropped a small purse onto the desk in the corner, then rifled inside before coming out with a small package. She grinned and displayed a three-pack of Magnums, yet to be opened.
“You sure you’re gonna need all three? Not that I don’t admire the ambition.”
Mateo was so hard, he felt like he could batter his way through a brick wall with the organ between his legs. She would be lucky if she could stand and walk through the door by the time he was finished.
“I’m going to need all three,” he confirmed, beginning his approach.
She reached toward him when he drew close, but Mateo grasped her wrists and twisted her arms behind her back. Gathering them in one hand, he jerked her toward him until she stumbled, coming out of her heels. She tipped her head back to look at him, her lips parted and her breath hitching. She thrust her pelvis against his, teasing him. He gritted his teeth and put some space between them. She smelled like some kind of perfume, candy sweet. He didn’t like it, but his cock didn’t care.
“Go bend over the desk,” he rasped, releasing her arms and giving her the slightest push in the right direction.
For a moment, Mateo didn’t think she would follow the command. Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell open as if in shock. He stared back at her, silently waiting for her to make up her mind. His phone had gone off twice since she’d arrived, and it would be nothing to call in a replacement if she balked. It would be annoying, as it was late and he had to get up early in the morning, but it was possible.
Biting her lip, she did as he said and went to the desk, pushing aside his closed laptop before laying her upper body over it. The pink dress inched up enough for him to make out the undersides of her ass cheeks.
“Pull your dress up to your waist,” he growled, sinking onto the bed.
She complied, easing the dress over her hips and revealing the black strip of silk between her legs.
“Panties off. Spread your legs.”
Her hands shook as she pushed the panties down around her ankles. Then she stepped out of them, spreading her legs wide. The appearance of her pussy, pink and waxed bare, finally got a reaction out of him. It was like a chill running through him when he was cold or the purge of vomit from his stomach when he was sick. A physical reaction he couldn’t control, an itch that needed scratching. She did nothing for him, but she was warm, willing, and waiting. It was enough. It had to be enough.
“Touch yourself.”
She let out a little sound that sounded like approval before working her hand under herself. Her fingers appeared between her legs, parting her lower lips and strumming over her clit. Mateo watched as she worked herself, stroking her clit for a few minutes before pushing two fingers inside with a moan. He watched in silence, waiting for the evidence that she was ready. He didn’t have the patience for foreplay.
“You like that, baby?” she whispered between moans. “You like watching me fuck myself?”
Mateo didn’t answer, approaching her while pushing his sweatpants around his thighs. She wiggled and groaned when he grasped her hips, pushing her tighter against the desk. He slipped a hand between her legs, finding wetness smearing her inner thighs. She pulled her fingers free, and he glanced down to find them glistening. She reached for him, as if trying to help guide his cock inside her, but Mateo batted her hand aside and then pressed against the small of her back, a silent order for her to remain still. He tore open the box of condoms, dumping them onto the desk. It took him seconds to get one open and roll it on, keeping one hand on Christine’s back to hold her still. She was panting now, squirming under his hand and begging him without words to fuck her.
So, he fucked her. He slammed into her in a single thrust, battering her against the desk and the desk against the wall. The first grasp of her around him narrowed his world to only physical sensation, and he let himself go for the first time in months. He dug his fingers into her ass and held her down, the sting of his thighs slapping against hers sharp and primitive. She moaned and clawed at the desk as he went at her ruthlessly.
His entire body had gone rigid, the muscles of his chest and abdomen so tense he could hardly breathe between thrusts. But he couldn’t stop now. Couldn’t stop punishing this woman for not being Mariana or punishing himself for being so weak. He went on drilling Christine at a pace that had him panting for air and her practically screaming in pleasure. When she raised her head to look at him over her shoulder, he grasped the back of her neck and pushed it back down. He held her in a merciless grip, his fingers tangling in her hair as he pushed against her one last time and came. He gritted his teeth around the guttural sound pushing up through his throat, trembling as he pumped his hips and wrung himself out inside of her.
She went limp on the table and then began to sag with a low whimper. Mateo barely had time to get the condom off and snatch up his sweatpants before she was sinking toward the floor. He caught her up with one arm and deposited her on the bed, then paced to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. He stood at the sink, gripping the ceramic edge in both hands as he avoided his own gaze in the mirror. If he looked, he would see what he felt certain Mari would see. She would be horrified by his callousness, disgusted by his depravity.
Glancing over his shoulder, he found Christine watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. She didn’t seem to mind his roughness or his lack of finesse. Good. He wasn’t nearly done. He was already stirring again, the needs of his body doing battle with the turbulent storm of his mind.
Allowing that rawest, animalistic part of him to take the reins, he stormed from the bathroom, taking up another condom on the way to the bed.
Mateo chugged what was left of his Red Bull, pitching it into a trashcan before entering a crowded conference room in the New Orleans FBI field office. His team was scattered through the stark space, Smith standing near the coffeepot, Williams sitting behind a computer screen, Jones shuffling through a stack of case files. A handful of local agents faced the back wall, which had been covered with photos of the latest crime scene. Low whispers passed between them, hands held over mouths as they witnessed the horror of last night’s murder.
A tall Black man with broad shoulders moved away from the others and approached. He wore a charcoal gray suit that was almost a match for his eyes, a glimmering, steely gray. Dark hair was shaved low, slightly tapered on the sides. His face appeared hardened at first, but as he extended a hand to Mateo, he smiled, which softened him considerably.
“Good morning. I’m SA Jack Donovan, your Field Office Liaison while you and your team are in town.”
Mateo studied Donovan closer, the man’s words at odds with what he could see with his eyes. He couldn’t be older than twenty-five. His skin was smooth and without the lines of age, and there was a glint in his eye that Mateo knew well. This agent was both unseasoned and untarnished. He still had the promise of youth and vitality in his eyes, and an unmistakable energy emanated from him.
Still, Mateo would reserve judgment for now. For anyone to become a Special Agent—not to mention being trusted with the task of liaising—was no small feat. There was more to Donovan than met the eye.
“Morning,” Mateo replied, shaking Donovan’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m SSA?—”
