Chapter 4: Alistair tears at Mala's blouse, buttons scattering across the marble floor as he bends her over the glass with a growl. His teeth sink into her shoulder while his fingers roughly spread her thighs, finding her already dripping wet. 'You've been imagining this at your desk, haven't you?' he breathes against her skin, his thick cock pressing against her ass. Mala moans shamelessly, grinding back against him, her nails scraping the glass as he yanks her skirt up and plunges two fingers deep inside
The kiss wasn’t an end; it was a detonation. The careful walls they’d maintained for years shattered in the space of a single, shared breath. Alistair’s hands, which she had only ever seen shuffling papers or tapping vaguely at a keyboard, were on her, mapping the territory of her back through the thin silk of her blouse with a startling, possessive certainty.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “The bedroom,” he growled, the words rough against her lips. It wasn’t a question.
Mala could only nod, her own composure incinerated. He took her hand, his grip firm, and led her from the stark living room, through a shadowed hallway, and into his private space. The bedroom was exactly as she would have predicted—a study in severe minimalism. A massive, low-platform bed dominated the room, the black duvet tangled and unmade. A single, imposing desk stood against one wall, bare except for a sleek laptop. The only personal touch was a small, framed photograph on the nightstand of a younger, less guarded Alistair, but Mala’s eyes skipped over it, drawn to the floor-to-ceiling window that mirrored the one in the living room. The city sprawled beneath them, a dizzying tapestry of light.
He turned her to face that view, his body pressing against her back, his erection a hard, undeniable line against her. His mouth found the sensitive skin beneath her ear, his teeth grazing, nipping. A sharp, electric jolt shot through her.
“All this time,” he murmured, his voice a dark vibration against her neck. His hands slid from her waist to her stomach, then up, cupping her breasts through her blouse. “Playing the quiet mouse. And all along, you were a fucking lion.”
He unbuttoned her blouse with an efficiency that stole her breath, pushing the fabric from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet. His fingers found the clasp of her practical, lace-trimmed bra. It gave way. The cool night air from the window kissed her bare skin, followed an instant later by the scorching heat of his palms. He squeezed her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples, making her arch back against him with a choked gasp.
“Alistair…”
“Tell me you want this,” he commanded, his voice low and gravelly. One hand slid down her stomach, over the waistband of her tailored trousers, pressing firmly against the aching heat between her legs.
“Yes,” she breathed, the word a surrender and a victory. “God, yes.”
He spun her around to face him. His eyes were black pools of pure want, all pretense of the unassuming office worker gone. This was the man who owned the firm, the city spread at his feet. And right now, he was looking at her like she was the only thing in it that mattered.
He kissed her again, a savage, consuming kiss as he backed her up against the cold, unyielding glass. The city lights swam in her peripheral vision. He devoured her mouth, his tongue tangling with hers, while his hands worked at the fastening of her trousers. He shoved them down, along with her sensible underwear, until she stood bare from the waist down, pressed against the window for anyone in the towering buildings across the way to see, if they only looked closely enough.
The thought was terrifying. It was exhilarating.
He dropped to his knees before her. His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady. He didn’t ask. He just buried his face between her legs, his tongue finding her clit with unerring accuracy.
Mala cried out, her hands flying to the glass for support, her forehead pressing against the cool surface. His tongue was relentless, a wicked, knowing pressure that licked and sucked and drove her instantly to the edge. This wasn’t gentle lovemaking. This was a claiming. He ate her out like a man starving, his groans of pleasure vibrating through her core. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a spot that made her legs buckle.
“Oh, fuck… Alistair, don’t stop…” The filthy words tumbled from her lips, a language she didn’t know she possessed.
He didn’t stop. He drove her higher, his mouth and fingers working in a ruthless, perfect rhythm. The orgasm ripped through her without warning, a violent, blinding wave that made her scream, her body convulsing against his mouth. He held her through it, his grip on her hips iron-tight, not letting her escape the overwhelming sensations until the last shudder had passed.
He rose, his face glistening with her. He looked utterly debauched, and more powerful than she had ever seen him. He unfastened his jeans, freeing his cock. It was thick and hard, the tip already wet. He pressed himself against her damp, sensitive flesh, not entering her, just letting her feel the promise of it.
“You’re mine now,” he whispered, his eyes locked on hers. “You understand that? This,” he thrust against her, making her gasp, “this makes you mine.”
Before she could form a coherent thought, he hooked his hands under her knees and lifted her, pressing her back fully against the window. Her world was the cold glass at her back and the burning heat of him at her front. He positioned himself at her entrance.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his intense gaze.
He drove into her in one single, brutal thrust, filling her completely, stretching her to the point of sweet, sharp pain. A ragged cry was torn from her throat. He didn’t pause for her to adjust. He just started to move, setting a punishing, deep rhythm that shoved her body against the glass with every snap of his hips.
The room filled with the sounds of their coupling: the slap of skin, their ragged breaths, her helpless, choked moans, his guttural grunts. He fucked her with a raw, animalistic hunger, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her open for him. The city’s indifference below made the intimacy feel more obscene, more real.
“You feel that?” he gritted out, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. “That’s what you do to me. You and your sharp mind and your fucking perfect composure.” He leaned in, biting her shoulder, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to brand her. “Come for me again, Mala. I want to feel you come on my cock.”
His words, the relentless friction, the sheer dominance of his body pinning hers against the window—it was too much. Another orgasm, even more powerful than the first, detonated inside her. She screamed his name, her inner muscles clenching around him in violent, rhythmic spasms.
The sight of her coming undone, the feel of her tight heat milking him, broke his control. With a final, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt, he groaned, a long, low, raw sound of release. She felt the hot pulse of his come filling her, marking her as his in the most primitive way.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, pinned between the cold glass and the heat of their spent bodies, breathing in ragged unison. The city lights continued their silent vigil.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered her until her feet touched the floor. Her legs were liquid, barely able to hold her. He held her up, his arms wrapped around her, his face buried in her hair.
“Jesus,” he breathed, the word muffled against her neck.
Mala leaned into him, her mind a blissful blank. The embezzlement, Veronica, the firm—it all felt a million miles away. There was only this room, the scent of their sex hanging in the air, and the shocking, undeniable truth of what had just happened.
He finally pulled back, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the ferocity of their joining.
“The game changes now,” he said quietly, his voice still rough. “For both of us.”
She just looked at him, knowing he was right. The lines were not just blurred; they were erased. And she had no desire to redraw them.
His breath was still hot against her neck, his come still leaking down her thigh. The city’s lights were smeared blurs through the sweat-smeared glass where her body had been pressed. He didn’t let her collapse, his arms like steel bands around her, holding her upright even as her muscles quivered with spent force.
“Not nearly done,” he rasped, the words a dark promise that coiled in her gut. He turned her in his arms, his gaze dropping to the evidence of their joining glistening on her inner thighs. A possessive, feral smile touched his lips. “Now, the bed.”
He didn’t ask. He simply swept her into his arms, her own reflexively looping around his neck. He carried her the few steps to the massive, disheveled bed and dropped her onto the tangled duvet. The scent of him—whiskey, clean sweat, and sex—rose from the fabric, enveloping her. He stood over her, stripping off his henley and jeans with brutal efficiency, his erection jutting out, still thick and demanding.
“On your knees,” he ordered, his voice leaving no room for debate. “At the edge of the bed.”
A fresh thrill, sharp and dark, shot through her. She moved, her body obeying his command before her mind could fully process it. She got onto her knees, the soft duvet beneath her, her back to him. She heard the tear of a foil packet, a brief rustle, and then the slick sound of him rolling a new condom on.
His hands gripped her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her ass. “You took me against the glass like a fucking whore,” he growled, his voice low and venomous. “Now let’s see you take me like my good little assistant.”
He didn’t guide himself in. He just shoved, the broad head of his cock stretching her open with a brutal, burning pressure. She cried out, her back arching, her fingers clawing at the duvet. He filled her completely, the angle deeper, more invasive than before. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, not moving.
“Tell me whose cock this is,” he demanded, his voice a rough whisper against her ear as he leaned over her.
“Yours,” she gasped, the word torn from her.
“Again.”
“It’s your cock, Alistair,” she moaned, pushing her hips back against him, needing friction, needing him to move.
He granted her wish with a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into her with a force that drove her up the bed. Each thrust was a raw, animalistic piston, the slap of his skin against hers a vulgar counterpoint to his filthy words. “This tight, perfect cunt,” he grunted, one hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back. “All mine. You think you can uncover a two-million-dollar fraud and not expect me to claim every fucking part of you?”
He fucked her with a relentless, driving hunger, his possession absolute. The world narrowed to the feeling of him splitting her open, the bite of his fingers on her skin, the guttural sounds ripping from his throat. She was completely at his mercy, and the power of that surrender was more intoxicating than any control she’d ever wielded.
“I’m going to come inside this greedy pussy,” he snarled, his pace becoming frantic, erratic. “You’re going to milk every last drop from me, understand?”
His words, the raw carnality of the act, pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm crashed over her, a seismic wave that clenched around him, pulling a ragged, roaring shout from his lungs. She felt him pulse deep inside her, his own release triggering another, smaller climax that left her trembling and boneless.
He collapsed over her, his weight a welcome anchor, his breath hot on her shoulder. For a long time, they stayed like that, joined, the only sound their ragged breathing slowly returning to normal.
Finally, he shifted, pulling out and disposing of the condom. He rolled onto his back beside her, one arm thrown over his eyes. The city glow painted his torso in shades of silver and shadow. “Veronica won’t know what hit her,” he said, his voice now calm, analytical, as if they’d just concluded a board meeting.
Mala turned her head on the pillow to look at him. The shift was jarring, but she followed his lead, her own mind clicking back into gear. “She’s arrogant. She thinks she’s already won.”
“Arrogance makes people stupid.” He turned his head, his eyes meeting hers in the dimness. There was no tenderness in his gaze, but a fierce, burning partnership. “We start tomorrow. You and I.”
“We start tomorrow,” she echoed.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. It was the same smile he’d given her when he’d first seen the evidence. The hunter’s smile. “Get some sleep, Mala.” He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek. “The real work begins now.”
His words hung in the air, a promise and a threat that should have chilled her. But the warmth of his body beside her, the scent of their sex, the dull, pleasant ache between her legs—it all created a shield against the outside world. She let her eyes drift closed, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the slight stickiness of his release drying on her inner thigh.
His hand, which had been resting lightly on his stomach, moved. It wasn't a gentle caress. His fingers traced a deliberate, possessive path from her navel down through the damp curls, his touch reigniting sparks she thought were extinguished. "Then again," he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the dark, "tomorrow can wait a little longer."
He rolled onto his side, looming over her, his expression unreadable in the shadows. The tenderness from moments before was gone, replaced by that same feral intensity that had pinned her to the window. His words were a soft contradiction to his actions. "We should sleep. We need to be sharp."
But his hands were on her wrists, gathering them, his grip firm. He held them both in one of his, easily, while his other hand slid down to part her thighs. "You're still so wet for me," he breathed, almost to himself, his fingers sliding through her slickness. "This greedy cunt isn't finished, is it?"
Before she could form a coherent answer, he shifted, moving with a predator's efficiency. He used his own discarded belt, the cool leather slithering from the floor, and looped it around her wrists. He pulled it tight, not enough to hurt, but enough to eliminate any doubt. He secured the end to the heavy wrought-iron headboard, stretching her arms above her head, leaving her completely exposed to him.
"Alistair," she gasped, a thrill of pure adrenaline shooting through her veins. The vulnerability was absolute, and it was terrifyingly arousing.
"Shhh," he said, kneeling between her splayed legs. He ran his hands from her ankles up her inner thighs, spreading her wider. He leaned down, his mouth hovering inches from her core. "I just want to look at what's mine." His breath was hot on her most sensitive skin. "I want to see my come leaking out of you."
He didn't use his tongue again. Instead, he positioned himself, the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance. There was no foil tear, no pause for protection. It was just his bare skin, hot and insistent, against her swollen flesh. The realization was a jolt. "Wait—"
He didn't wait. He pushed inside, a slow, brutal invasion that stole the air from her lungs. He was bigger this time, the lack of barrier making every ridge and vein a distinct, shocking presence. He filled her utterly, a deep, stretching burn that was half pain, half blinding pleasure. "Oh, fuck," she whimpered, her back arching off the bed, the leather strap pulling taut against her wrists.
He began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that was more about possession than pleasure. His eyes were locked on where their bodies joined, watching himself slide in and out of her, glistening and wet. "You feel that?" he grunted, his voice thick with a dark wonder. "That's all me. Inside you. Raw."
He drove into her harder, faster, the bedframe creaking with the force of his thrusts. The world narrowed to this: the bite of the leather on her wrists, the slap of his skin against hers, the overwhelming fullness of him. Her mind, usually a whirlwind of lists and strategies, went blank, white static. She was just a body, a vessel for his relentless, pounding rhythm.
He leaned over her, his chest brushing against her nipples, his mouth close to her ear. "The firm," he breathed, each word punctuated by a deep, jarring thrust. "It's mine. Not my family's. Mine. I bought it out five years ago."
The confession should have been earth-shattering. The final piece of the puzzle, the truth behind the rumpled suit. But her brain, fogged with pleasure and endorphins, could only latch onto the physical. "What?" she panted, her eyes struggling to focus on his.
"I'm the owner," he repeated, his pace becoming frantic, brutal. He was fucking the truth into her, his hips pistoning, his balls slapping against her. "The whole fucking thing. I've always been the owner."
The words meant nothing against the sensation of his bare cock pistoning inside her, against the building pressure in her core that was coiling to an impossible tightness. "I don't... I can't..." she sobbed, not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it.
"Doesn't matter," he growled, slamming into her, hitting a spot that made her see stars. "Nothing matters but this. Come on my cock, Mala. Now."
It was an order she had no choice but to obey. Her orgasm erupted, a convulsive, screaming wave that tore through her, clenching around him like a fist. Her cries were raw, animalistic, stripped of all thought and identity.
The violent clenching of her inner muscles around his length shattered his control. With a guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt, his own release pumping into her in hot, pulsing jets. She felt every spurt, a deep, internal claiming that seemed to go on forever.
He collapsed onto her, his weight a crushing, welcome anchor. His breath was a ragged heat against her neck. For a long time, the only sound was their gasping struggle for air, the humid air thick with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, his breathing evened out. He shifted his weight, reaching up to unbuckle the leather from her wrists. He rubbed the faint red marks left behind, his touch now surprisingly gentle. He didn't pull out of her, remaining lodged inside as he rolled onto his side, taking her with him, spooning her from behind.
His arm curled around her waist, his hand splayed possessively over her lower stomach. "The real work begins now," he whispered again into her hair, his voice husky with exhaustion and satisfaction.
This time, she understood it was a vow.