Page 41 of Boardroom Mask

I grab his free hand. He lets me take it and I drag it up my body and press it against my throat.

With a hungry snarl, he clamps down and the blood flow to my head is restricted, the world goes hazy, all of it ceases tomatter unless it’s this, him, here, now, this cold kitchen floor and my liquid desire and his hand inside me, around my throat, everything that’s ever mattered all at once…

“That’s it,” he encourages, “cum for me, gush for me, my perfect fucking?—”

I don’t hear the rest. The orgasm crashes through me and I scream against the grip on my throat. My whole body locks and I feel the onslaught of it, hot and sudden, covering his hand, his wrist, and the tile beneath me. He doesn’t stop. He finger-fucks me through it while I bear down like I’m being shoved through a black hole and shake and soak him until I’m gasping and spent and spread-eagled and limp.

Slowly, he peels his hand away from my throat. I open my eyes because, without him choking and touching me, I feel cold.

That’s when I look up and realize something: We are a long way from being finished.

He’s still kneeling between my legs. As I watch, his gray eyes darken and he rises more upright. His hands go to his belt. The buckle clinks as he works it open, then the button, then the zipper. He reaches inside and pulls himself free.

I can’t look away.

He’s as thick as my wrist, hard, and flushed dark, the head already slick and leaking with precum. He wraps his fist around the base and strokes up, slow, squeezing at the top before dragging back down.

I’m still twitching from aftershocks, so speaking is out of the question. All I can do is watch his hand move. Up. Down. Twist at the head. Back down.

He’s in no rush. He’s putting on a show and he knows it.

“Look at you,” he rasps, fist tightening on the upstroke. “Soaking wet on your own kitchen floor. Your own juices slicking your thighs. You came so hard you’re still twitching and all you can think about is getting your mouth on me. I can see it. Don’t even try to lie or conceal it. It’s right there—your tongue just moved at the mere thought.” He pumps himself down again. “I know what you’ve been thinking. But do you want to know whatI’vebeen thinking about since the first night I came through that window? This. Exactly this. You, underneath me, wrecked, dripping, begging. I’ve been thinking of what’s about to happen.” His thumb circles the head and his breathing gets heavier. “How I’ll bury myself so deep that you’ll feel my cock in every inch of you. I’ll rearrange you to my liking. I’ll fuck you until the only word left in that bratty little mouth isplease.” He grips harder, pumps faster for two strokes, then forces himself to slow down. “And you’d say it, too. Don’t pretend you won’t. You already did once tonight. You’ll say it again. You’ll say it every fucking time I tell you to, because that’s what good girls do when they’re finally honest about what they want.” His free hand finds my inner thigh and squeezes. “And you want it, little fox. Don’t you.Don’t you?”

He bends down, anchors his hands on either side of my head, and lines himself up. The head of his cock presses against me, not pushing in yet, just resting there, hot and heavy, and I think that this is the closest I’ve ever been to a true psychotic break. All the things that make memehave been ruined and cast aside. I’m a body, not a person.

And my body wants his.

“Look at me,” he orders.

I look at the mask.

“Tell me to stop and I stop. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Say it back to me.”

“If I tell you to stop, you stop.”

“Good girl.”

Then he pushes in.

It’s been five years. My body resists… and then doesn’t. He goes slow, feeding me one inch at a time, and the stretch is overwhelming—not painful, exactly, justa lot, too much and not enough at the same time. I grab his jacket with both hands and pull, trying to bring him closer, trying to ground myself in something solid. He bites his lip as he sinks the rest of the way in until our hips meet.

He stays there, buried to the hilt, not moving. My entire body is clenched around him. I can’t breathe and I can’t think and I can’t do anything except hold onto his jacket and exist.

Then he pulls back, slow, and pushes in again. Out, then in. Out, then in. Each thrust bottoms out and, like he promised, I feel it in my spine, my teeth, the roots of my hair.

It’s nothing like anything I’ve ever experienced. Not even close. It’s total and consuming. I’m aware of every single point where his body meets mine.

His hips against the backs of my thighs.

His hands caging in my head.

The rough denim of his jeans against my bare skin.

The weight and pressure and cinnamon heat of him above me, inside me, everywhere.