Page 47

I tear the belt loose, let it drop to the floor. I drag his pants down, rough, catching the head of his cock on the waistband so it snaps free. He’s hard, thick and flushed, already leaking.

He watches every move I make, eyes narrow, pupils wide.

I climb onto the desk, straddle him, and pin him flat to the surface with my thighs. My cock rides his, the heat of him like a fuse against my stomach.

I bend down, mask to his ear, and whisper, “This time, I’m in charge.”

He laughs, or tries to, but it comes out as a low, desperate sound.

I spit into my hand, slick my cock, then spread his legs with my knees before putting them over my shoulder. I use my hand to line myself up, press the head of my cock to his asshole. He’s tense, the muscle fighting me, but I hold his gaze and drive in, slow at first, then fast enough to hurt.

He grunts, knuckles white on the edge of the desk. His eyes never leave the mask.

I fuck him, hard, using my hips and the leverage of his spread legs. Every thrust rocks the desk, the wood creaking under the force. I dig my nails into his chest, rake them down so they leave red furrows.

He’s breathing fast now, the cool mask air turning everything into a fever dream. I use the mask’s blankness as a weapon, let him see nothing but his own reflection in the black surface.

“You like this?” I growl, punctuating the words with a savage thrust.

He hisses, but it’s not pain. His cock is trapped between our bellies, grinding with every stroke.

I lean in, bite his neck, then lick the salt from his skin.

“I learned to read you,” I say, voice low and vicious. “Learned how to anticipate what you want before you know it yourself.”

He laughs, but it breaks into a moan when I fuck him deeper. The sound of our bodies—flesh on flesh, skin slapping, the wet slide—fills the room.

Pulling out with a wet pop, I turn him, push him chest down on the desk. I grab his wrists again, force them behind his back, and use the silk belt from my robe to tie them. The move is quick, practiced, and when I’m done, his hands are trapped, his back arched up, his body mine to use.

I pound him harder, the angle perfect now, his ass clenching around my cock. I don’t last long—none of my self-control left after the last month of teasing, fighting, needing.

When I come, I pull out just enough to make a mess on his back, streaking the skin with cum. He gasps, the sound ragged, then tenses, and his cock pulses, spraying the desk in long ropes.

We freeze there, both of us shaking, bodies locked together by the power we create together.

I untie his wrists, but he doesn’t move. I lean back, legs shaking, and stare at him.

His face is red, sweat streaking down, hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes are alive, electric, more human than I’ve ever seen them.

I take the mask off in one motion, toss it onto the desk.

“I’m not your prisoner anymore,” I say, voice raw and real. “I’m your equal.”

The mask clatters to the floor, the sound echoing through the silent room.

He looks up at me, and for the first time, there’s no calculation, no defense.

Just hunger.

He gets up and pulls me down, kisses me, and this time, it’s not a war.

It’s a promise.

The world comes back slow. First the sting of sweat drying on my skin, then the pain—good pain, the kind that reminds you you’re alive.

We’re in a heap on the rug, both gasping, both still leaking. My chest presses into his back. He doesn’t try to get up.

The office is trashed: papers everywhere, the mask staring up from where it landed, a trail of buttons and broken glass leading from the door to the edge of the desk. The snow outside is a silent witness, blue-white in the glow of the garden lamps.