Page 91 of Beautiful Scars

She pouts and I laugh at her. We stop outside my office and I unlock the door, pushing her through it as soon as it’s open. She catches her little stumble and spins around to face me, a question written all over her face.

“Bend over the desk,” I tell her. I walk around the room switching a few lamps on, and then take a seat in the far corner.

She’s still standing right where I left her.

“Am I speaking English or fucking jibber-jabber?”

She looks down at the carpet and tries to fight off a laugh, but her shoulders shake and her stomach trembles.

I’m not about to repeat myself because I probably won’t like her answer—my accent does get worse when I’m riled but I know she understands me.

So instead I get up, and stand in front of her—face to face. My hand wraps around her hair twice, and with a firm grasp I drag her forcefully to the desk. She cries out when I push her down against the hard surface.

In hindsight, this wasn’t my brightest idea. Because of my height, anything from IKEA feels like it was made for a child, so the desk is custom-made. The tips of her toes are barely brushing the carpet.

But I’m a resourceful man.

She landed on her hands but I take them and cross them over her back, wrist to elbow, and I hold them there.

Then with my free hand, I switch on the TV.

I scroll until I’ve found Sky Sports, and the weekend’s football highlights, and I turn up the volume.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m sorry, what was that? You’ll have to speak up princess, Daddy’s occupied.”

She laughs but it’s an angry one. “You fuck.”

I drop the remote so quickly it bounces off the desk, freeing my hand so I can crack it across her backside. “That’s two. Or is it three?”

“Two,” she grits out.

“She can count! Clever girl.”

“How many until you fuck me?”

I chuckle at her. “Not until you’re begging.”

My hand slides between her legs. She’s already wet. She sighs as I circle her clit and then moans when I tease her opening. I go back and forward, never giving her enough.

Her knuckles are turning white from clenching her fists. “Just say the words,” I tell her. “We both know you’re going to crack.”

“I’ll beg when you stop watching TV,” she argues.

My fingers work at the entrance of her pussy, stretching her open but never going in. She must hate me. Christ, I fucking hate me right now.

“Aw. Poor baby.” I make sure she knows I’m mimicking her earlier words by doing my best attempt at a South African accent. “Can’t stand not being the center of my attention?”

“You’re the only one who’s the center ofyourattention,” she shoots back. I slide my finger inside her mid-sentence and chuckle as her voice goes all wobbly.

“We could change that,” I propose. “Just tell me how much you want me. Then you can be the center of my attention, too.”

She lets out a sigh, but doesn’t say anything. So I slap her ass again to wake her up.

“You know I want you!”

“And now I’ll hear it. You want my cock?”