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I gasp, but he doesn’t look away, and I feel my chest start to rise and fall rapidly. Even worse, I’m horrified to feel my flesh swelling in response behind the cups of my bra, and when my breasts start to ache painfully, I realize too late what it is he’s trying to prove.
I want him. I want him to fuck me. And the bastard knows it, too.
Hopeless frustration consumes me, and I find myself whispering bitterly, “Bastard.” Before I know it I’m already rushing towards him, my hand raised to slap the smirk off his goddamn face—-
Mr. Rochester catches my wrist before I can hit him, and even as I gasp in outrage Mr. Rochester goes further, hauling me against him while he reverses our positions—-
In a blink of an eye, I’m trapped between his desk and Mr. Rochester’s rock-hard body, his uninjured hand holding both of my wrists captive behind my back.
I stare up at him, confused, horrified, but most shamefully of all – I’m also aroused, more so than ever—-
And of course the bastard knows this, too. It’s there in his eyes, and even though I know it’s true, the sight still infuriates me, and I mutter under my breath, “This is harassment.”
But Mr. Rochester only chuckles. “Harassment only occurs when someone’s reluctant.” His hips move right after he speaks, and I find myself gasping as the positions of our bodies change—-
And just like that his monstrously erect cock is cradled directly between my wet, throbbing folds.
Oh God.
“And you’re not reluctant, are you?”
Biting back a moan at the feel of his cock rubbing against my pussy, I manage to snarl, “Bastard.”
“Yes,” he agrees without hesitation. “I am a bastard. I’ve never pretended to be anything else and yet – you want me anyway, don’t you, Ms. Reed?”
I can only glare at him, knowing that if I speak, my breathless voice will only reveal how true his words is.
“I suggest you do the same,” Mr. Rochester murmurs, “so you can put yourself out of your misery. Be honest, Ms. Reed. Tell me what you want—-”
“All I want,” I grate out, “is that you let me go now and stop harras—-”
Mr. Rochester doesn’t wait for me to finish. His uninjured hand yanks one of my hands between our bodies—-
My words end in a gasp. “What are you—-”
Mr. Rochester shoves my hand down.
And I suddenly find myself gripping the pulsing, engorged length of Mr. Rochester’s cock.
Oh God.
A low whimper escapes me, and the sound makes Mr. Rochester’s eyes gleam in cruel satisfaction.
“This, Ms. Reed,” Mr. Rochester says silkily, “is what you really want.” And as if to underscore his words, his hand over mine tightens, and my fingers automatically tighten around his cock as well—-
Oh God.
The feel of his enormous cock between my fingers makes my breath hitch in my throat.
“Perhaps you can answer me now, Ms. Reed.”
I watch Mr. Rochester’s hand lift from mine as he speaks. I know it’s my best chance to pull away—-
“What do you want from me?”
—-but I don’t.
I can’t.
Instead, I watch in horror as my fingers tighten its grip around his cock—-
Oh God.
Why can’t I let go?
Over my head I hear Mr. Rochester slowly expel his breath, the sound filled with such languid pleasure I just know—-
He loves the way I’m holding his cock and he wants me to know it.
“Say it,” Mr. Rochester whispers.
It’s like being tempted by the devil himself and I squeeze my eyes shut in a desperate, futile attempt on resistance.
“I d-don’t know what you’re talking about—-”
Mr. Rochester cuts me off with a laugh, and even the mere sound of it is dreadfully alluring. He really is the devil, I think foolishly.
“Shall I help you out then?” Mr. Rochester suggests under his breath. “Do you want me to say it for you?”
My eyes widen. “No—-”
But I’m too late, and the words that I should never have heard are already out.
“What you want, Ms. Reed,” Mr. Rochester croons, “is to do what I want.”
“No!”
“You want me to fuck you. Wherever and whenever I desire—-”
“Stop,” I gasp.
“However I desire,” Mr. Rochester goes on ruthlessly. “Rough. Hard. Fast. On the wall. On the floor. On this damn desk this very minute if I want it—-”
“No!” And I finally remember to struggle. “Let me go.”
“Not until we’re done—-”
“You don’t own me, Mr. Rochester,” I hiss at him.
But the words only make him smirk, and he whispers into my ear, “Not yet.”
Aaaah.
I try to shove him away even as my knees quake, but Mr. Rochester retaliates by grinding his lower body harder against mine-—
Oh God.
Desire surges up inside of me, and I can feel my body starting to sag and mold against his powerful length.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
Why do I want him so much?
And again, it’s as if the bastard really is capable of reading my mind as he whispers, “I told you, Ms. Reed. You want me.”
