Of course, Kat’s seen my cock before. She’s even had it in her mouth but when she realizes that I’ll be claiming her pussy this afternoon, a small whimper escapes from her throat. Yet she nods, biting her lip again like she’s nervous. But she doesn’t look away.
I push the young girl back, until she’s lying on the desk, hair spilling over the edge. I position myself between her legs, line up, and press the head of my cock to her dripping pussy. She’s so tight, so wet, I can feel her pulsing against me.
“Ready?” I rasp, but I don’t wait for an answer. I push forward, just the tip, then a little more, then a little more. She’s tighter than any woman I’ve ever had, and it takes everything I have not to lose it on the spot.
She winces, a flicker of pain crossing her face.
“Oooh,” Kat moans. “Mmm.”
“You okay?” I rasp. “You’re very small, Miss Vreeland.”
She nods, but she’s breathing fast, her hands gripping the desk edge.
“Relax,” I murmur, brushing the hair from her forehead. “Let me in.”
I go slow, so fucking slow, but it’s still a stretch. She’s trembling, but she doesn’t ask me to stop, her pussy straining as my cock moves forward. The friction is unreal, she’s so small. Yet her body gives, inch by inch, but about halfway in I hit a wall—a physical barrier.
What the fuck?
My first thought is it’s just my size, that she’s clenching too tight or needs a minute to adjust, but then I see Kat’s face.
She’s gone pale, her eyes gone huge and glassy. She’s biting her lip so hard she might bleed, and her cheeks are flushed. Her big breasts heave, the nipples hard, but I know she’s hurting.
I freeze, the truth dawning on me in a cold rush. My brain short-circuits. I look down, at her pussy lips pulled as thin as rubber bands around the circumference of my hard shaft. It’s hurting her, and it’s not just my size.
No fucking way.
Katherine is a virgin.
I pull out slowly, gentle as the my shiny rod exits those plush folds. She exhales with relief, but my dick is still hard, still throbbing, still glazed with her fluids. I stagger backward, tripping over the goddamn visitor’s chair, heart pounding like I’ve been shot.
Kat blinks, confused. She starts to sit up, skirt falling over her thighs, blouse half-open, nipples begging to be sucked. She reaches for me, a question in her eyes, but I can’t—there’s no words, nothing I can say that will make sense of this.
I grab the box of tissues from the desk, toss it to her, and just bolt. I’m out the door, up the stairs, and into the master suite, where I slam the door so hard the glass in the frame rattles. I lock it. I put my back to the wall and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, suit pants still around my knees, my cock still half-hard and sticky with her nectar.
Jesus. Fuck.
I haven’t felt this much like a monster since the day my father left and never came back. There’s a nausea in my gut, but also—god help me—a heat, an animal pride, something masculine, possessive, and absolute. I close my eyes and try to breathe. I want to be angry at Sweet Lies, at Camille, at Kat for not saying anything, but the only thing that fills my head is the look on the beautiful woman’s face: the shock, the surrender, the way she never once said stop.
I sit there for an hour, maybe more, listening to the slow tick of the grandfather clock in the great room, and the muffled sounds of Kat moving around—bathroom, maybe, or kitchen, or just her feet on the stairs. Every time I hear her, my heart jumps, but I don’t move. I can’t face her. Not yet.
Eventually, my hard-on fades. I clean myself up, fix my clothes, and stare at the lines in the wood floor until the sun starts to go down.
I fucked up. Bad.
But the part that scares me most isn’t the proof of her innocence. It’s that Ilikedit.
I liked it more than anything I’ve ever had.
God help me.
That evening,the house is quieter than I’ve ever known it.
I stay in my office until the sky is purple and the windows show nothing but my own haunted reflection. I don’t write. I don’t drink. I just sit, hands locked behind my head, staring at the ceiling and listening to the echo of what I’ve done.
At some point, the smell of roasted chicken drifts through the door—Kat, making dinner like it’s any other night. I want to crawl out the window and run into the woods. Instead, I force myself up, wash my face, and walk into the kitchen like a man on death row.
She’s there, in jeans and a sweater, hair down and damp from a shower. She doesn’t look up when I come in, just keeps shredding lettuce into a bowl. Her hands are steady. Her narrow jaw is set. There’s a fresh Band-aid on her left thumb.
