Chapter 7: Office Worship
The office smelled of lemon polish and stale ambition. Sunlight cut sharp angles across the mahogany desk, highlighting motes of dust dancing in the silence. Erik hadn’t looked up from his blueprints for ten minutes. Stone stood in the doorway, her heart a frantic bird against her ribs.
She’d chosen the outfit with a calculated desperation. Denim shorts so abbreviated the frayed edges barely grazed the lower curves of her ass. A black corset top, laced tight, that pushed her breasts up and together until soft, freckled flesh swelled over the top. She saw the exact moment he registered her presence. His fingers, holding a pencil, stilled. His shoulders tensed under the crisp white shirt.
“Door’s open for a reason,” he said, his voice cool, still not looking up.
“I know.” She stepped in, letting the door click shut behind her. The sound was final. “We need to talk about the patio. About the door.”
Now he looked. His blue eyes were glacial, sweeping over her, from the wild cascade of her red hair down to her bare legs. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “There’s nothing to talk about. It was a mistake.”
“It didn’t feel like a mistake.” She took another step. The leather of his visitor’s chair was cool against the back of her thighs as she passed it. “It felt like the only real thing that’s happened in this house for years.”
“Stone.” His warning was low, dangerous.
She ignored it. The space between his desk and his chair was a canyon. She crossed it. Sinking to her knees on the plush, grey carpet, she felt the world narrow to this: the scent of his cologne, the faint starch of his slacks, the overwhelming silence of the high-rise around them.
“What are you doing?” His question was a hissed breath.
“What I’ve wanted to do since I was sixteen.” Her fingers went to his belt buckle. The metal was cool. His stomach clenched beneath her knuckles. “You knew. You always knew.”
He didn’t stop her. He watched, his breathing shallow, as she worked the leather free, as she popped the button of his slacks, as she slowly drew down the zipper. The sound was obscenely loud. Through the slit of his boxer briefs, she saw the heavy, thick line of his cock, already half-hard. A dark, possessive thrill shot through her.
“I’ve always loved you,” she whispered, the confession molten in the sterile air. She wasn’t looking at his face anymore. Her world was the fabric she was pushing aside, the heat she was freeing. “Let me show you. Let me taste you, Daddy.”
His cock sprang free, full and thick, the head already flushed a deep, ruddy purple. A pearly bead of moisture gleamed at the tip. She didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward, her lips parting, and took him into her mouth.
The taste was musky, salty, purely him. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking gently at first, her tongue swirling around the sensitive underside of the crown. A ragged groan tore from his throat. His hands came down, not to push her away, but to sink into her hair, fisting the long red strands.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
Encouraged, she took him deeper, relaxing her throat as she’d practiced in secret, with clumsy, plastic substitutes that bore no resemblance to this living heat. She gagged once, tears springing to her eyes, but pushed forward, forcing her body to accept him. Her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. She was full of him, her throat stretched tight around his shaft.
She began to move. Up and down, a slow, then faster rhythm, her head bobbing in his lap. The corset dug into her ribs, and with each downward plunge, her breasts threatened to spill completely from the constricting top. Slick, filthy sounds filled the office, accompanied by his strained grunts and her own muffled moans. She was wet again, a hot, aching pulse between her legs that throbbed in time with her movements.
“Look at you,” he gritted out, his voice rough with something like fury. “On your fucking knees. My little slut.”
The words, so crude, so demeaning, sent a jolt of pure lightning through her. She moaned around him, sucking harder, her hand coming up to cradle his heavy balls, rolling them gently.
“You’re going to swallow every drop,” he commanded, his hips starting to piston up, fucking her mouth in short, sharp thrusts. “You understand? You asked for this. You wanted this fucking mouthful. Now take it.”
He was losing control. The rhythm broke, became erratic, brutal. She could only hold on, tears streaming down her cheeks now, her jaw aching, letting him use her throat. His grip on her hair was painful, anchoring her.
With a final, deep snarl, he shoved himself to the hilt and held there. His whole body locked. A hot, bitter flood hit the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, again and again, as he pulsed, her throat working around him until he was spent.
He slumped back in his chair, his hands falling from her hair. She slowly pulled off, her lips slick and swollen, gasping for air. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking up at him.
His expression was shattered. The cold architect was gone. In his place was a man hollowed out by guilt and satiated hunger. He looked at her—kneeling, disheveled, his come on her chin—and something in his face crumpled.
“Get up,” he said, his voice hollow.
She stood, her knees protesting. They stared at each other across the wreckage of his professionalism. He tucked himself away mechanically, zipped his slacks, fastened his belt. The actions were those of a stranger.
“This ends now,” he said, but the words had no force.
“It doesn’t,” she said, her own voice surprisingly steady. She adjusted her corset, her fingers trembling. “You don’t get to fuck me against a door and use my throat and then call it an ending. It’s a beginning.”
“It’s a disaster.” He turned to look out the window, at the clean, logical lines of the city he’d helped build. “Your mother—”
“Is having lunch at the gallery,” Stone finished. She walked around the desk, stood beside him, following his gaze. “We have two hours.” She placed a hand on his arm. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. “The door is locked. The blinds are closed. Who are you trying to be good for?”
He turned his head. His eyes were oceans of conflict. He saw the girl he’d helped raise. He saw the woman whose taste was still on his tongue. The duality was tearing him apart.
Slowly, as if against his will, his hand rose. His thumb brushed the lingering wetness from the corner of her mouth. The gesture was unbearably intimate.
“Two hours,” he repeated, the words a surrender.
Outside, the city buzzed, oblivious. In the sleek, sunlit cage of his office, they stood on the precipice, all exits sealed, tumbling forward into the forbidden dark.