Page 15 of Vivacity
‘Your self-control is deplorable.’ He sounds deeply disappointed in me.
‘Self-control is overrated. And I don’t have all day. Unless you’re stalling because you’re worried you won’t be able to deliver?’
He pushes his hardness further against me, his strong fingers and thumbs kneading my bare skin. ‘I have no concerns. And if you’re going to work for me, you’ll need to learn to shut up and take what you’re given.’
Hell, yes. My head is turned sideways, one cheek is pressed to the coolness of his desk, arms cactused. So when I let my eyes flutter shut at this most delicious threat, I guess he sees it.
‘You like that.’
Yes.‘Maybe.’
With my face like this, I can see his arm and not much more. He releases his grip on me and slides his fingers underneath the elasticated lace at the top of my thong.‘You like it.’
He waits, and I sigh in defeat, because I have no interest in going up against Captain Edger in a self-control contest.
‘Yes. I like it. But I’d like less conversation and more action even better. I’m not the only one who needs to learn to shut up.’
‘Like I said. You’ll take what you’re given.’ The strain is evident in his voice, and that’s enough to shut me the hell up. A few seconds of meek silence on my part seem to do the trick, because he slides that thong over my arse and right down my legs, and my mind reels. It reels as much at the pleasure of having damp lace peeled away from my swollen flesh as at the knowledge that Eight is getting his first good look at my goods and his first real proof that, despite my backchat, I’m evidently more than ready to “take what I’m given”.
I wonder what he thinks.
CHAPTER 8
Sophia
He doesn’t give much away aside from a ragged exhale that I suspect he’d rather suppress. The man is not a gusher, but I kind of love these unwilling breadcrumbs of his.
He leaves my thong hanging around my ankles. ‘Legs wider. Otherwise, don’t move a muscle.’
I do as he says, sliding my feet further apart until the stretched thong bites at my ankles. It’s a basic, tawdry form of restraint, and it feels great. Almost as great as being naked and bent over for a very powerful, fully dressed man who receives all his safety cues from his ability to control others.
‘That’s good,’ he acknowledges gruffly, and then I hear the tear of foil. The sneaky little shagger must have had a condom in his pocket the entire time that he was sitting across from me and grilling me. I fucking adore that he was planning on jumping on me before I even showed up.
‘Friendly reminder,’ I say, my cheek and tits and stomach still plastered to his desk, ‘but a lot rides on this for you. Pun intended. I really hope for your sake that you know how to use your dick well enough to compensate for your total lack of charm, because—oooh fuuuck.’
That last bit is unintentional but unavoidable, because he slides a couple of leisurely, entitled fingers between my legs, gliding over my clit and dragging backwards through my soaked flesh before pressing against my entrance lightly enough to be sheer torture.
‘Clearly there’s only one way to get you to shut the fuck up,’ he muses, and then he’s pulling his fingers away and replacing them with the wide, latex-covered head of his big fat dick, and pushing in. No warning. No preamble. His three-second fingering provided him with, I assume, ample evidence that I was aroused as fuck, and now we’re off to the races.
I claw uselessly at the relentlessly smooth desk beneath me and brace myself as he grips one of my arse cheeks hard and guides himself in.
God, he really is big. Even without having had a peek at it, I can tell this is a lovely dick. I push back against him, taking him deeper, and all my flesh jiggles on the desk. He shunts forward, gaining a couple of inches, and we both groan.
My skin is already prickling with sweat. I blame the unmitigated anticipation of getting a really good fucking from someone I don’t know from Adam, from a man who’s willing to pay an awful lot of money to have me at his beck and call every single weekday, although I’m slightly surprised he’s gone straight in. This is supposed to be our chance to explore each other thoroughly, but he’s barely touched me with his non-dick body parts.
He pushes home and stills for a moment, his cock buried deep inside my body and his wool trousers ticklish against my thighs. ‘Fuck, yes,’ he hisses before dragging himself out in a smooth glide that has my nerve endings singing.
And we’re away, him quickly establishing a rhythm of vicious, feverish thrusts that light me up inside and me holding on for dear life as I take every glorious inch that he sees fit to giveme. I wish I could see him, wish I had a clear view of his face. I’ve seen it work through a limited emotional range of dispassion, disapproval and hunger, but I haven’t seen it when he’s in the throes of getting exactly what he’s been craving.
But it’s hot, too, the relative anonymity of this age-old position, the privacy it affords him, at least. Being bent over his desk as he samples me, as he enjoys the spoils he’s paid through the nose for, is a thing of staggering pleasure. And, because I have little visual stimulation aside from the view across the expanse of desk to palest grey linen-covered walls and black-and-white photographs of details from Kingsley’s hotels spanning the twentieth century, I’m afforded a richer appreciation of other sensory marvels: the harsh rasp of his breath as he fucks me in the angriest way; the bite of marble against the tops of my thighs as the force of his drives shunts me forward over and over; the impossibly good ache so deep inside my body each time he bottoms out.
The pleasure is growing, and I know it’s only partly physical, even if this man is conducting a masterclass in carnal pleasure. The dynamic itself is just as arousing: his demand that we do this here and now; his arrogant entitlement; his conscious failure to provide me with any foreplay. I’m not sure if it’s dismissive or presumptuous; I’m unclear whether he knows he can perform well enough to sell this job without any warmup or whether he simply doesn’t give a shit, because I’m here solely for his pleasure.
Honestly? Both are equally, obnoxiously, hot.
As he continues his barrage, my mind clears of thoughts and sensation takes over. I give myself over to the delirium of it, my consciousness shrinking to the truly excellent pounding he’s giving my pussy.
‘Fuck,’he grits out. ‘So fucking good.’ His next thrust elicits a whimper of delight from me and a low groan from him. He dragshis hands roughly up my sides and wedges them underneath me so he can cup my boobs before extracting one hand and slamming it down on his desk in front of my face. He’s rolled up his sleeves, it seems. The sight of his leanly muscular forearm flexing under the weight of his drives is a far more gratifying sight than a photo of an Art Deco cocktail bar, that’s for sure.
