Chapter 2: The Interception: Claiming What's Wanted
The laughter of the women’s restroom echoed off the marble tiles, a bright, sharp sound. Maria leaned against the cool sink, watching Leah reapply her lipstick in the mirror. The two glasses of Malbec hummed in Maria’s veins, liquid courage.
“He’s intense,” Leah said, capping the tube. “And he’s what, fifteen years younger? You have to talk to him.”
“I did talk to him,” Maria said, drying her hands on a stiff paper towel. “It was… unnerving.”
“Unnervingly hot. He looks at you like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s planning something.” Leah grinned. “So, what’s the plan? You’re not going to just let him vanish into the night, are you?”
Maria tossed the towel into the bin. The melancholy that usually shrouded her had burned away, replaced by a low, insistent thrum. She thought of his hands, the sheer size of them resting on the table. The way he’d said ‘control environments.’
“No,” Maria heard herself say, the word clear and firm. “I’m not. I want him to fuck me. I want those big hands on me. I want him to ruin this damn pencil skirt.”
The confession hung in the perfumed air. Leah’s eyebrows shot up, then she laughed, a low, knowing sound. “There she is. Go get him, tiger.”
Heat flooded Maria’s face, but it was a hot, defiant flush. She pushed off the sink, smoothed the tight black skirt over her hips, and walked out of the restroom with a stride she hadn’t felt in years.
The corridor outside the restroom was a tunnel of shadow and gold, the velvet drapes drinking the light. Her heels clicked a sharp, deliberate rhythm on the polished floor, each step echoing the pounding in her chest. She was almost to the main room when a shape detached itself from the deep alcove near the fire exit.
Jarkko moved with a startling silence. His hand shot out, not rough but impossibly firm, and closed around her wrist. The heat of his grip was a brand.
“I heard what you told them,” he said, his voice a gravelly whisper directly in her ear. He pulled her into the alcove, a space thick with the smell of old wood and spilled whiskey, and pinned her against the wall. The cold plaster bit through her silk blouse. His body was a solid wall of heat against her back.
She gasped, the sound swallowed by the muffled thump of the jukebox bass from the bar. His other hand slid around her waist, palm flat against her stomach, pulling her into him. He was hard already, a thick, rigid line pressed against the seam of her skirt.
“You want to be ruined, Ms. Bentley?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. His fingers dug into the flesh of her belly. “You want those big hands on you? You said it so pretty for your friends.”
“Jarkko,” she breathed, her head tipping back against his shoulder. All her teacherly poise, her elegant grace, it evaporated under the sheer physical fact of him.
“Say it for me now,” he demanded, his voice low. His hand left her stomach and gripped her hip, his fingers splaying possessively over the curve. “What exactly do you want?”
The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, freed by the wine and his punishing proximity. “I want you to fuck me,” she said, the vulgarity a shock on her own tongue. “Right here. I want you to hike up this skirt and fuck me hard.”
His exhale was a hot, satisfied rush against her neck. “Not good enough.” His hand slid down, over the front of her skirt, palming her through the fabric. She jolted at the contact, a shudder running through her. “You were more specific before. In the bathroom. Tell me.”
He applied pressure with his palm, a slow, grinding circle that made her whimper. The breath hitched in her throat, the last of her resistance crumbling. She arched into his touch.
“I want you to fuck me in the asshole,” she whispered, the obscenity hanging in the dark air. “I want you to take me there, Jarkko. Now.”
A rough sound, almost a growl, vibrated through his chest and into her back. “Fuck,” he hissed. His hand left her and she heard the quick, efficient sound of his belt buckle releasing, the rasp of his zipper. His other hand didn’t hesitate; it pushed her skirt up roughly, bunching it around her waist, and tugged her tights and panties down to her thighs in one swift, brutal motion.
The cool air touched her exposed skin, making her gasp. She felt his fingers, blunt and wet with her own arousal, probe against her. He pressed one inside her cunt, gathering slickness, and she cried out, her forehead pressing into the wall. He coated his fingers, then his other hand, and then she felt the thick, hot crown of his cock nudge not at her entrance, but higher, against the tight, forbidden pucker of her ass.
“You’re sure,” he growled, not a question but a command for final consent.
“Yes,” she gasped, pushing back against him. “Do it. Please.”
He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and then applied pressure. There was a burning, stretching sting as he began to push into her. She bit her lip, her nails scrabbling against the plaster. He was immense, the intrusion a delicious, searing violation. He didn’t stop, didn’t pause to let her adjust, just fed his cock into her with a relentless, steady pressure until he was fully seated, buried to the hilt inside her.
A ragged moan was torn from her throat. He was so deep, so impossibly full. He held himself there for a moment, both of them breathing heavily, his chest heaving against her back. Then his hands clamped on her hips,