Page 25 of The Pleasure of Panic

“Yes,” I say again.

“Your stockings are so fucking sexy.”

“No talking,” I say, reaching around to grab a fistful of his hair.

He doesn’t respond. At least with words. But he does stop fucking me.

I peek over my shoulder. “Don’t even think about it,” I say.

“What?” he asks. And I catch a glimpse of a charming, boyish smile appearing on his face.

“If you stop—”

“If I stop… what? What will you do, Issy Grey?” He leans in to bite the outer edge of my ear, which drives me wild. Like sends a shiver through my entire body. “Will you kick me out?”

“No,” I say, nearly breathless. “I guess I’d have to just… submit and do what you want.”

“Why?” he asks. “Because I’ve given you a taste of my magic cock and now you realize you can’t live without it?”

It’s a joke. And normally I’d banter back with him. Have a few laughs. But I’m not in the mood for laughing. I just want to come! So I say, “Yes,” instead. “Yes. I need your cock, Special Agent Murphy. I need all of it, I need—”

He pounds me. He fucks me so hard my cheek crashes into the wall with each forward thrust. My legs are trembling, the muscles tired of the exertion of keeping myself balanced on top of him. My arms are shaking too, exhausted from the effort of stabilizing my body as I am fucked from behind, completely lifted off my feet.

His large hands are gripping my thighs and I feel his fingers digging into my flesh—tearing at my expensive stockings. Ripping them so he can slide his fingers under the silky nylon and feel my skin.

And then he lets go of one leg, which puts me completely off balance again. I’m about to protest because my body is spent, my muscles taxed to their limit.

But that’s when his fingers find my clit. He begins to rub me. Back and forth so quick, I want to die. “Oh, shit,” I manage to squeak out, just as the warm liquid spills out of me and I squirt all over his fingers.

That’s it.

I come.

I come so hard my whole body begins to convulse. Sounds escape my mouth that defy description. Moans, and squeals, and shouts of, “Fuck yes! Don’t stop!” and, “More, more, more!”

He slows his thrusts until there’s nothing left of me. Until I disappear. Until I cease to exist in any world other than the one of post-coital afterglow.

And then he drops my other leg, pulls out, presses his large hand between my shoulder blades, and pushes me to the floor.

I bend low, my head pressed into the hardwood floor of my foyer, my ass high up in the air, as my fingers find my clit and begin to rub.

He spills his come all over my back, the heat of it making me climax again. His moans match mine. Low growls of satisfaction.

Then he bends down, uses my blouse to wipe off his come, and gathers me up in his arms.

He carries me across the room. I don’t even open my eyes to see where. Can’t open my eyes to see where. But then he sinks onto my couch, me in his lap, and relaxes back into the cushions.

“That was fun,” he says, nearly gasping for breath. “But we’ve got somewhere to be, so…” He slaps my thigh. Hard. Hard enough to make me cry out from the surprise and pain. “So let’s clean up and get on the road.”

“I don’t wanna,” I say, turning into his chest, burying my face in the crook of his neck.

“You’re not in charge anymore, Ms. Grey. I am.”

“How long?” I ask.

“How long what?” he says. His voice is low, but not throaty like it was a few minutes ago. It’s soft, and calm, and completely devoid of panic.

“How long will you stay with me? Just tonight?” It might come off a tiny bit desperate, but fuck it. If you can’t be needy in the wake of this kind of sex, when can you?