Page 104 of Boardroom Mask

“Good girl.”

He dives back in with a vengeance, and this time, two fingers push inside me. I bite my fist. My other hand finds the top of his head and grabs a handful of his hair. The wet sounds his mouth is making are filthy and amplified in this tiny wooden box, and through the lattice screen, I can see the flickering glow of prayer candles and the shadow of the crucifix on the far wall.

Kir’s fingers curl as he eats me out. “You taste like you’ve been thinking about me all night,” he purrs against my pussy.

I yank his hair hard. I want it to hurt. He growls with pleasure and sucks harder, and my knees buckle for real. He catches me with both hands on my ass and holds me up, his face buried between my thighs, and I’m essentially sitting on his hands while his mouth destroys me.

The orgasm tears through me. A strangled sound escapes around my knuckles, high and desperate, but Kir still doesn’t stop. He works me through the entire thing, slower now, softer, drawing it out until I’m twitching and oversensitive.

He presses one last kiss to the inside of my thigh. Then he stands.

In this space, standing means his body is flush against mine from knee to chest. His belt buckle digs into my bare hip. His hands are on the wall behind my head again, and his face is close enough that when he exhales, I breathe it in.

“Turn around,” he orders.

There isn’t much room, but I do it anyway, shuffling in the narrow space and grinding against him in the process, until my chest is pressed against the back panel and my cheek rests against the wood. Behind me, I hear his belt, then the slide of a zipper, and then his hand is on the back of my neck, firm, holding me in place.

“Hands on the wall,” he instructs. “Flat.”

I press both palms against the panel. The wood is worn smooth by decades of hands doing exactly this—pressing flat, gripping, bracing for whatever comes next. Same posture. Very different context.

He kicks my feet apart as far as the bunched jeans at my knees will allow. Then he pushes into me from behind.

I squeak in shock.

“Shh,” he breathes against my ear, but there’s a smile in it.

“Then go slow.”

“Not a fucking chance.”

He pulls back and thrusts in again, harder, and my forehead knocks against the wood. He fists a hand in my hair and pulls my head back, keeping my spine arched, while the other hand grips my hip to hold me in place.

“This is what you get,” he says, “for kneeling in a pew with your hands folded like a saint, when we both know you’re anything but.”

“I’m a better person than you.”

He slams forward and I choke on whatever I was going to say next. “You’re a brat,” he corrects, tightening his fist in my hair. “A gorgeous, insufferable, stubborn little brat who can’t go five minutes without mouthing off. And I love every fucking second of it.”

Love—that’sa word we will not be exploring tonight. I shove back against him, hard, taking him deeper, and he splutters in surprise as I bear down around him. I grin savagely. If I’m going to lose my mind in a confessional, he’s coming with me.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” I breathe.

It’s bait, pure and simple. He takes it. His hand leaves my hair and wraps around my throat from behind. The other hand snakes around my front, finds my clit, and starts working it in aflickering blur while he keeps pounding me with his thick cock. It’s all too much.

“Say my name,” he orders.

“Fuck you,” I pant.

“Say it.”

“I’m not going to?—”

He pinches my clit lightly and pulls out halfway. “You said it to the camera,” he reminds me. “Just the other night, remember? You moaned it to an empty room. You can say it now.”

I did scream it to an empty room and a blinking red light. It felt safe because he wasn’t there. But he’s here now, his chest against my back and his hand on my pulse and his cock inside me in a church, and saying his name means admitting this is real. This isn’t a mask or a screen or a camera.

This is a man.