Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 125962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
It excited me, this game. By the time I sat in an armchair, my pussy was throbbing with need. I made a show of crossing my legs slowly, so he could see the red lace triangle between my thighs. Why not? Men had various, toxic methods of gaining the upper hand, which wasn’t hard because it was handed to them for generations.
As much as they were clamoring for it, willing to take it by force if need be, most men did not know what to do when a woman offered herself up so overtly, communicating that their pussy was theirs.
I knew that this wouldn’t work on the man in front of me, but his eyes did flicker downward for a split second. I swallowed my smirk. Then I waited. Though the silence was uncomfortable, his stare unyielding, and the air charged, I waited. My heart was a dull roar. My skin was clammy, I was finding it hard to breathe, and my body was pulsating with need.
But I waited.
“What’s your name?” I asked finally, my voice sharp, a serrated blade.
“Cristian Romano,” he replied immediately, his own tenor smooth and rich like espresso.
There it was. I finally had a name for him.
Cristian.
I tried my best to look unruffled, like he wasn’t affecting me. I knew I failed. It was too late to be coy. This man knew my very insides.
I loathed and adored that.
“What can Grimes, Pike and Weathers do for you, Cristian?” I asked, sitting forward ever so slightly. My tongue ran over my lips, and my thighs parted as I spoke, my body working against me.
I took him in in the bright afternoon light. He had shaved, the skin of his jaw smooth, the angles of his face sharp, severe. His features hinted at an Italian heritage, a heavy dark brow and flawless olive skin. Cristian wasn’t perfect, though, despite the fact his chocolate hair was shiny, slicked back from his face. A scar ran through his left brow, small, but important to me. I relished that imperfection, that sign of violence. His nose too, had a small bump signifying it had been broken and hadn’t healed right.
Cristian watched me as I took him in, his hazelnut eyes deepened with hunger. With a familiar need.
“What you can do for me, Sienna, is stand up, take off your panties, and bend over this desk.”
His words skimmed across my skin, setting it on fire, my heart thundering in my chest.
I didn’t hesitate, didn’t even try to argue or ask any more questions. No, I stood on shaking knees. My hands moved up my thighs, pushing at the sides of my dress so I could take off my panties and step out of them. Cristian stood as I moved to the desk, as I placed my palms on the cool oak. I arched my back ever so slightly and spread my legs, already primed. Ready.
He didn’t make me wait, didn’t torture me as I’d expected him to. No. He bunched my dress up, pushing it over my hips so my bare skin was exposed to him. The door wasn’t locked. Anyone could walk in. And I was facing a floor to ceiling window, neighboring skyscrapers lingering close by.
None of that mattered.
The only thing that mattered was Cristian’s hands on my skin. The slight rustle as he freed himself from his slacks.
Silence boomed through the room as he paused. For a moment. For an eternity. I almost cried out. I almost fucking begged him. That’s how desperate I was to be fucked by him. To feel him inside me again.
“Do you know how often I’ve been thinking about being inside your cunt again?” Cristian hissed, his voice no longer smooth. It was wild. Feral. “How crazy this pussy has made me, you little whore?”
He spoke the last word softly. Like a caress. A whisper. I fucking loved it.
Then he surged into me. He didn’t coax his way in, prepare me. He didn’t need to.
One of his hands bit into my hip while the other bunched up my hair, yanking at it. I hissed in pleasure as pain exploded through my scalp. As my body climbed toward climax. There were no sounds other than our reunion, the slapping of his skin against mine. His low grunts. My whimpers. I moved to grip the sides of the desk, as I was about to sink my nails into the wood, tear up my fingers just to feel more violence combined with pleasure. My body tensed up as he continued thrusting, yanking on my hair, pressing the pads of his fingers into my hipbone. Though I knew it was coming, that it was going to break me apart, my orgasm shattered me. I cried out, gripping onto the desk so hard, I was sure I was going to tear the wood apart.