Chapter 10: Office Examination
The city lights glittered like a spill of cold diamonds beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Deniel’s home office was a capsule of quiet power, dominated by the massive dark mahogany desk. The only sounds were the soft hum of the computer’s cooling fan and the faint clink of ice in a glass of amber whiskey. He sat back, rubbing his eyes beneath the frames of his reading glasses. The numbers on the screen—shipments, losses from the Bay Four fire, Kinski’s encroachments—blurred into a meaningless static. He was trying to focus, but his mind kept drifting to the warm weight of Naira sleeping down the hall, to the way she’d tasted of fruit and salt that morning.
A whisper of silk against the doorway.
He didn’t look up immediately. He heard her bare feet on the polished concrete floor, the almost inaudible hitch in her breath. He let her stand there for a moment, feeling her presence like a change in barometric pressure. Then, her voice, so soft it was almost a part of the silence.
“Abang…”
He finished typing a line, the click of the keys unnaturally loud. He was only wearing a thin black tank top, the sleeves cutting across the dense musculature of his shoulders and biceps. His tattoos—a sprawling, intricate tapestry of ink that told stories of a life she could only guess at—were fully exposed. His dark hair was ruffled from running his hands through it. The glasses perched on his nose gave him a deceptive, scholarly air.
The strange, internal pulse began again, a deep, rhythmic throb inside her that had nothing to do with her heartbeat. It was a low, insistent beat, like a phantom finger tapping insistently against a spot deep within her womb. It had started yesterday, after the last traces of her period had faded. A new, bewildering need. She took a step into the room, the hem of her ivory silk nightgown brushing her thighs.
“Abang?” she called out again, her voice trembling slightly from the peculiar sensation.
Deniel finally looked up, his dark eyes magnified and penetrating behind the lenses. “What is it?”
Naira took another tentative step, drawn forward by the confusing urgency in her own body. The office felt vast, his presence at the desk a dark nucleus. “I have been feeling… weird. Inside me?”
He took his glasses off slowly, setting them on the polished wood with a precise click. The shift in his focus was absolute. “What do you mean?”
Her cheeks flushed. How did you explain a ghost? “I’m not doing anything, but I feel like… like someone is fingering me. Hitting my… spot?” The crude word felt alien in her mouth, but it was the only one that fit. “If that makes sense?” She took another step inside, the city’s glow painting her silhouette through the thin silk.
Deniel’s expression shifted from weary concentration to sharp, predatory interest. He pushed his heavy chair back, the wheels rolling smoothly on the rug. He made a space for her between his spread knees. “Come here. I don’t understand what you need from Abang.”
She moved to him, the scent of his skin—soap, whiskey, and that dark, essential him—washing over her. She stood within the cage of his legs, looking down at him. The sheer size of him, even seated, was overwhelming. The defined planes of his chest, the corded strength of his arms, the dark ink that seemed to writhe in the low light—it all coalesced into a potency that made the internal beating quicken.
“Can you…” she began, swallowing hard. “Can you help me to ease it, Abang?”
A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips. He said nothing. His hands came up to her hips, his thumbs stroking the delicate crests of her pelvic bones through the silk. Then he gathered the fabric of her nightgown in his fists and drew it upwards, past her thighs, her hips, her stomach. He pulled it over her head, leaving it pooled around her shoulders like a collapsed shroud. She stood before him, bare except for the necklace he’d given her, the cold metal a stark contrast against her warm skin.
“Show me,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble.
Her hands were unsteady as she reached between her own legs. She was already slick, her wetness undeniable. She touched herself, her fingers finding her swollen clit, and a sharp gasp escaped her. The phantom pulse seemed to sync with her touch, a deep, internal echo.
“It’s… it’s like a beating. Inside. Here,” she whispered, her middle finger circling her own entrance.
“Let Abang check what’s making my wife so needy,” he growled.
In one motion, he pulled her forward, off her feet, and into his lap. She straddled him, her knees digging into the soft leather of the chair on either side of his powerful thighs. The hard ridge of his erection, confined within his sweatpants, pressed insistently against her bare ass. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked, his gaze dropping to where her body met his.
His left arm banded around her back, holding her securely against him. His right hand descended, thick fingers parting her folds with a blunt, proprietorial touch. He found her slickness easily, spreading it, and then his middle finger pressed inside her, just to the first knuckle.
She cried out, her head falling back. The intrusion was nothing compared to the feeling that followed. His finger felt huge, filling the channel, and as he pushed deeper, curling upwards, he brushed directly over that spot—the epicenter of the mysterious, throbbing pulse.
“There?” he murmured, watching her face contort.
“Yes! Oh, God, yes, right there,” she sobbed, her hips rocking involuntarily against his hand.
He began a slow, devastating massage. In, curl, press. Out. In, curl, press. Each time he pressed, it sent a shockwave through her, a visceral clench that made her thighs shake. He added a second finger, stretching her, the burn exquisite. He scissored them gently, working her open, his eyes never leaving her face, studying every twitch, every flutter of her eyelashes.
“It’s just your body, sayang,” he said, his voice rough with arousal. “Waking up. After your cycle. It’s empty, and it’s hungry. It knows what it needs now.” He thrust his fingers deeper, harder, the heel of his hand grinding against her clit. “It needs to be filled.”
She was mewling, animal sounds she didn’t recognize as her own. The office, the city, the threats—all dissolved into the sensation of his fingers working her over, finding a rhythm that perfectly matched the internal drumbeat. Her orgasm built not in a wave, but in a sudden, terrifying crescendo.
“Abang, I’m gonna—!”
He pulled his fingers out abruptly, slick and gleaming in the lamplight. The loss was a physical pain. She whimpered, her body trembling on the brutal edge.
Deniel shifted, his hands gripping her waist. He lifted her effortlessly. With his other hand, he shoved his sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It stood thick and veined, the head flushed a deep, angry red. He positioned her over him.
“Tell me what you need,” he demanded, the head pressing against her soaked entrance.
“You,” she begged, beyond shame, driven by the frantic beating inside her. “I need you inside. Please, Abang, fill me up.”
He let her sink down onto him.
It was a slow, inexorable impalement. He was so much thicker than his fingers, stretching her unbearably, perfectly. The sensation of being spread open, of that throbbing internal emptiness being violently occupied, made her scream. He didn’t stop until she was fully seated, his pelvis grinding against her, his cock buried to the hilt inside her trembling body.
He held her there, fully speared, letting her adjust. His arms wrapped around her, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades, the other tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to look at him. “Is this what your little cunt was beating for?” he rasped. “For my cock to come and punish it?”
“Yes,” she choked out, the fullness a shocking relief. The phantom pulse was gone, replaced by the very real, solid presence of him stretching her deepest walls.
“Then fuck yourself on it,” he ordered, his grip tightening. “Take what you came begging for.”
She began to move, rising and falling in his lap, each drag of his cock along her sensitive walls wringing a broken moan from her throat. He helped her, his hands on her hips guiding her rhythm, soon setting a punishing pace. The chair creaked in protest. The sound of their bodies meeting, wet and firm, echoed in the sterile room.
He watched her, mesmerized, as she rode him. Her breasts bounced with each desperate bounce, her face a mask of agonized pleasure. He could feel her tightness milking him, feel the precise moment her internal muscles began to convulse around him. He thrust up, hard, meeting her downward plunge, and her eyes flew open wide.
“Come,” he snarled. “Come all over Abang’s cock. Let me feel that hungry little hole squeeze every drop out of me.”
His words, filthy and precise, tipped her over the edge. The orgasm detonated, a white-hot wire of pleasure that seared through her from that deep, internal spot outward. She screamed, her body locking, her nails digging into his shoulders as she spasmed around him.
The violent clenching of her inner walls was his undoing. With a guttural roar, he slammed her down onto him one final time, holding her hips in a vice-like grip as he erupted. His release was a hot, pulsing flood deep inside her, jet after jet, marking her, claiming the empty space her body had cried for. He groaned, a raw, unrestrained sound of surrender, his forehead falling against her sweat-slicked chest.
For long minutes, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city. He was still hard inside her, softened only slightly, still plugged deep. She collapsed against him, boneless, her face buried in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent.
Eventually, he shifted, but didn’t pull out. He simply held her closer, one hand stroking her damp hair. The other reached for his discarded glasses, placing them back on his nose with his free hand. He turned slightly, pulling the keyboard closer with her still impaled on his lap. The screen cast a pale blue light over them.
“What… what are you doing?” she murmured, dazed.
“Work,” he said simply, his voice a rough caress against her temple. One hand resumed its slow stroking of her hair. The other began to type, the clicks steady and sure. He adjusted a column of figures on the screen, his focus seemingly on the numbers.
Naira drifted, cradled in his lap, filled with him, anchored by his relentless presence. The phantom beat was gone. In its place was a profound, saturated quiet, and the soft, rhythmic clicking of keys in the dark.