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I can’t take it.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I mutter, placing the last few books on the table and moving towards the door.
He’s off the desk in the blink of an eye, jogging towards me. My hand is claimed, and he leads me over to his desk, his phone still at his ear. I’m guided to the chair and pushed into the seat, then he resumes position on his arse, on the edge of his desk, a whisper away from me.
Hazel eyes hold me in my seated position, and one of his feet slips between mine. ‘Yes,’ he says into the phone, tapping both of my ankles with his foot and raising an eyebrow.
My mouth gapes when I catch on, and my legs turn to steel in an effort to stop him. Becker’s eyes laugh in the face of steel. He cocks his head, keeping his phone to his ear by his shoulder, and leans forward, placing a palm on each of my knees. My body temperature hits the ceiling and my teeth clench. No amount of stiffness or strength could stop him. Not mental, not physical, though I try. What is he doing?
The ‘1965 Ferrari 275 GTB,’ he says, spreading my legs so I’m wide open and exposed to his appreciative eyes. My hands find the arms of the chair, my fingers clawing into the leather. ‘The Long-Nose Alloy Berlinetta.’ I’m still and silent as his long fingers walk their way up the inside of my thigh. Those damn fingers are leaving a trail of fire in their wake, and the thought of them reaching the apex of my thighs has me lifting my arse from the leather to escape. He’s on a business call. I need to be quiet, and I can’t guarantee that at all.
‘Ouch!’ I yelp when he pinches the delicate flesh on the inside of my thigh, my body going limp from shock, my arse hitting the chair again. I shoot him a look, finding his lips pouting and his index finger resting lightly on them.
‘Shhhh,’ he whispers, stretching the sound out for ever, returning his hand to between my legs. My head starts to shake frantically, telling him silently that I can’t, but he just nods in response, keeping his phone held to his ear by his shoulder while he reaches for something on his desk. A coaster? It glides through the air towards me, and my mouth drops open, stunned by his intention. Big mistake. I’ve just invited him to slip it between my teeth, and he does, wriggling it a little for me to grip onto. Oh, Jesus, he’s really going to do this. Is this how it’s going to be? Sexual games during the working day? I want to be delighted, but I’m too worried right now. Mr H or Mrs Potts could walk in at any moment and catch me with my legs spread and Becker . . . playing with me.
‘I’m only interested in the original colour,’ Becker goes on, and I look up at him, his body bent to reach his target. He gives me a wicked grin and comes down to his knees in front of me. My eyes follow him all the way. Here I am, legs wide open, fingernails piercing the leather of the chair, with a coaster in my fucking mouth.
Welcome back to The Haven.
His fingers brush the seam of my knickers, and I whimper, quietly begging, which he totally ignores, looking up at me and relishing in the sight of me squirming. Then the warmth of his fingers connect with my sensitive heat, and his eyes widen, sparkling. My spine clicks one vertebra at a time until my back is poker straight.
‘When does it arrive from Italy?’ he asks, so calm. I don’t know how he’s doing it.
My jaw begins to ache from my crushing grip of the coaster between my teeth, my forehead beginning to bead with sweat. I look down, seeing his arm between my legs. I could yank it out, if it wasn’t for the invisible handcuffs keeping my wrists nailed to the arms of the chair. I’m immobilised by his boldness. I close my eyes, unable to resist the urge, as he slowly slips his fingers inside me. The soft heat of me melds around him instinctively, immediately creating a maddening friction. I force myself to breathe through it, but Becker increases his pace, making my attempts more difficult by the second. This is so wrong, but that doesn’t seem to be registering with my nerves, muscles, or my morals. My insides are alight. I flex my hips up, inviting him, encouraging him.
I can vaguely hear someone on the other end of the phone rambling on about imports and interest from other parties, but I’m too alert to the feel of Becker within me to feel disgrace. The illicitness of this is just turning me on more, my orgasm gaining momentum unstoppably. The force behind his caress is bordering too much, his fingers hooked and sweeping within me. Then the bastard starts pumping, introducing his thumb to my clit. My eyes snap open, and I scream, the coaster muffling it a little, but not nearly enough.
