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“I need to see you,” he says, his eyes heavy with lust. “All of you. It was so dark last night, I couldn’t enjoy you like I wanted to.”
He spreads my legs and looks down at me with those intense, ravenous eyes of his.
“Touch yourself for me,” he rumbles. “Rub that wet pussy for me.”
I obey his command, dipping my hand between my thighs, building myself back up to where he so cruelly left me moments before. He watches, a look of satisfaction on his face as my fingers get busy.
It doesn’t feel as good as when he does it, but I still get a thrill from having him watch me. He wraps his hand around his thick, pulsing cock, stroking himself up and down as he enjoys the show I’m putting on for him. He does it slowly at first, just massaging himself, but then faster and faster, like he can’t help himself.
“Am I doing it right?” I whimper, arching my hips toward him. “Is this what you wanted?”
“Oh God, yes,” he breathes. “You’re so fucking sexy.”
He grips the length of his erection with both hands, working his shaft as his eyes never leave my fluttering fingers. I arch my back again, desperate to have him, eager to have him slide that gorgeous cock into me. I want every last inch of him.
The thought of it almost pushes me over the edge, my climax building once more, and Brock notices. He grabs my wrists and pins my arms above my head.
“Not yet, gorgeous. Not until I say.” He grips his cock and slides into me, making me scream out. No need to be quiet here.
It’s a release of emotion as I wrap my legs around his waist. I want him even deeper inside, as deep as he can go.
He never lets go of my wrists, pinning me down, controlling me, claiming me as his own. Our lips are locked together as we move as one, our bodies and minds coming together. He’s all that exists for me in that moment—nothing else matters. Just his body and mine, and our passion for one another.
He fucks me harder and faster, and I’m trying to hold it back, but I can’t. I can’t. He’s too much, too fast, too big.
With one final thrust, he roars, and I feel his hot seed spray into me in great spurts.
That’s it. That’s the final straw. The last thing that pushes me inexorably over the edge.
He continues to pin me down as my body convulses and pulses, wracked by spasms again and again until I have nothing left to give.
I lay under him, gasping, feeling him grow soft, still inside me. He pulls out and collapses next to me with an exhausted grin.
“Did you enjoy me like you wanted to?” I ask him, sleepily.
“Oh yeah,” he says between gasps. “Fuck yeah.”
He kisses me gently on the forehead and pulls me into a tender embrace, and that’s where we stay, on the couch. I fall asleep, soothed by the rise and fall of his chest.
The rest of the week passes by in a blur of happiness.
We split our time between his place and mine. He takes me out on dates every evening—sometimes for dinner, sometimes for drinks or a show, but we’re always together.
On the days that we don’t eat out, he cooks for me—and it turns out he’s a great cook.
“I learned from my mom,” he says. “She couldn’t live with herself if her children couldn’t cook. She made sure I knew how to make a few basic dishes before I left for college, and I just sort of built up my repertoire from there.”
My own attempts mostly end in disaster, but he still politely eats whatever I make him. I laugh one evening as he makes a face tasting my bolognese, before quickly rearranging his features and smiling with a thumbs up.
“Stop it!” I laugh. “It’s horrible. I know it’s horrible; you know it’s horrible.”
He concedes defeat after another mouthful. “It’s uh . . . well, it could use some work.”
“How very diplomatic of you,” I tease. “I have some take-out menus here. What do you want? Thai?”
“Sounds great,” he says. “How long does it take them to deliver?”
I check my watch. “Around a half hour?”
“Perfect,” he murmurs, kissing me on the neck as I order over the phone, desperately trying to keep my voice level as his exploring hands roam over my body.
Things are . . . interesting at work, too. He’s still got his authoritarian streak, is still a massive pain in the ass with how particular he is about how some things need to be done, but there’s a whole new element to it now.
I feel a little thrill as he orders me to do this or that, forcing myself to resist the urge to turn around and kiss him. Luckily I manage to succeed because while fucking your boss at home is one thing, doing it in the office is quite another . . .
