And I'm going to use it to break her.
"Look at me." I start moving my fingers again, a slow, deep rhythm. My thumb finds her clit, slick with her own wetness, and I begin to circle it. "Eyes on me, Hope."
"I'm trying… the report…"
"Fuck the report." My voice drops lower, rougher. "You're taking my fingers so well. So wet for me. You're such a good girl."
"Jude—fuck—" Her hand grabs the edge of the table, knuckles white. Gage hasn't moved from the door, but his breathing has changed. His eyes are locked on Hope—her flushed neck, her parted lips, the way her body keeps shifting in the chair. He knows. And when my gaze drops, I catch the outline straining against his uniform pants. He's hard. Furious and hard, and he can't do a goddamn thing about either because her pleasure is more important to him.
"You're close. I can feel this pussy fluttering against my fingers," I breathe, speeding up the rhythm, pumping my fingers in and out of her slick pussy while my thumb works her clit into a frenzy. "So close. Let go for me, Hope. Come for me. Show me how good you can be."
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can. Fucking come, Hope."
She comes with her mouth open in a silent scream.
The orgasm rips through her, her pussy clenching and flooding around my fingers in wave after powerful wave. I feel every pulse, every frantic flutter as she shatters. Her eyes are glassy, her body trembling, and all she can do is cling to the table and ride it out.
I hold her through it, my fingers still buried deep inside her, coaching her down. When the last aftershock fades, I slide my fingers out and coat them in her come.
Then, holding Gage's gaze, I bring my hand to my mouth and lick my fingers clean. One by one. His nostrils flare. His hands ball at his sides, and the bulge in his pants hasn't gone down. He looks ready to kill me and he can't even shift his weight without giving himself away.
The pure, homicidal rage on his face is its own reward. I just made her come and you watched, the gesture says. I just tasted her on my tongue and you can't do a fucking thing about it.
He won't touch her. He's too decent. That's his weakness and I don't know whether I should be grateful or get rid of him.
"Jude." Hope's voice is stronger than I expect, thick and hazy. Come-drunk. "I still have to finish the assessment."
"Then finish it."
She looks down at the clipboard. Up at me. Back down. "What did the board table for the next review?"
She can't find her way back to the checklist.
"Extended recreation hours. You were supposed to note my opinion."
"What's your opinion?" she mutters, pen hovering.
"Write yes."
She writes it.
"I am helping, Hope."
"You're a menace," she corrects, but there's no heat in it. Only the lingering warmth of pleasure. She closes the folder and stands, her legs a little shaky, the clipboard clutched to her chest.
"This was..." She trails off. Shakes her head.
"Productive?"
"I was going to say unprofessional." But she's smiling, small and secret and meant only for me.
She turns and walks toward the door, toward Gage, who's going to have to unlock it and walk her down the corridor and pretend nothing is different.
I watch her go, and my eyes catch on the corridor past her shoulder. The solitary block sits one hallway over. The box where they broke me over and over, where the chemicals dragged me under and kept me there. I can smell it if I breathe deep enough, can feel the walls pressing in from a corridor away.
If Hudson finds out—if the footage catches something I missed—if she says one wrong word to one wrong person—
