Chapter 2: The Signing
The drawer was open. His hand was still on hers, a hot, heavy weight. The pen was there, nestled among paperclips and rubber bands, but it was irrelevant now. The only reality was the press of him behind her, the undeniable hard line of his erection against the curve of her ass, the strained silence broken by the ragged sound of her own breath.
He didn’t move. He just let her feel him, a deliberate, taunting presence.
“You’re not getting the pen, are you?” he murmured, his lips now dangerously close to her ear. His free hand left the drawer and settled on her hip, not groping, just claiming. His fingers spanned the flare of her pelvis through the thin wool of her skirt.
She tried to stand, to pull away, but his body was a wall. A cage. “Boris, let me go. This is—”
“What?” he interrupted, his voice a low vibration she felt in her own bones. “Unprofessional? I’m signing the papers. This is just… a discussion of the property’ finer points.” His hand slid from her hip, smoothing down over the desperate tautness of her skirt, cupping the full, round swell of her ass. He squeezed, not gently. A sharp, possessive knead of flesh that made her gasp. “Point one. The exceptional rear elevation.”
A whimper caught in her throat, part protest, part something else entirely. She pushed back against him, a weak, futile shove with her hips. It only pressed her more firmly against his rigid cock.
He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. “There it is. That little fight. I wondered when it would come.” His other hand joined the first, both now gripping her ass, fingers digging into the softness, pulling the fabric even tighter. “But your body’s telling a different story, Julia. It’s telling me it’s tired of being decoration. It’s telling me it wants to be used.”
He released her abruptly. The sudden absence of his touch was a shock. She stumbled forward slightly, bracing herself on the desk, her head hanging between her shoulders.
“Stand up,” he commanded softly.
She did, slowly, feeling her muscles protest. She turned to face him, her back against the desk’s edge, a pathetic attempt at defense. Her face was flushed, her lips parted.
He looked at her, his gaze like a physical inventory. Then he stepped in, eliminating the space she had tried to claim. His hands came up and framed her face, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. The touch was almost tender. It was the most dangerous thing he had done yet.
“Your husband,” he said, his eyes locked on hers, “he touches you like you’re made of glass. Like you might break.” His thumbs stroked down to her jaw, then her throat. They rested there, on the delicate column, applying the slightest pressure. “You’re not glass. You’re flesh and blood and need. And you’re starving for it.”
His words were a key turning in a lock deep inside her. She couldn’t deny it. The truth of it was a flood, washing away the last remnants of her resistance. Her eyes slid shut.
“Look at me,” he growled.
She opened them. His were dark, pupils blown wide with hunger.
“Tell me,” he whispered, his thumbs pressing a little harder into her throat. A warning. A promise. “Tell me what you really came here for tonight. Was it the commission?”
She tried to shake her head, but his grip held her firm.
“The… the sale,” she managed, the words a thin lie.
He smirked. He leaned in, his breath hot on her mouth. “Liar.” He sealed the word with a kiss.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a conquest. His mouth was brutal, demanding, all possession and no permission. He didn’t coax her lips apart; he pried them open with his tongue, invading her, tasting her. It was rough and deep and filthy. One hand stayed at her throat, the other tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to deepen the angle. She moaned into his mouth, a sound of pure, shocked surrender. Her hands, which had been braced against the desk behind her, came up, fluttering for a moment before clutching at the front of his shirt.
He bit her lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to sting, to claim. Then he pulled back, just an inch. A string of saliva connected their mouths for a second before breaking.
“Open your mouth again,” he ordered, his voice ragged.
She did, automatically, pliant.
He spat into it.
The shock was electric, visceral. Warm, wet. Profane. Her eyes flew wide. A tremor ran through her entire body. It was the most degrading, most exhilarating thing she had ever experienced. She didn’t spit it out. She swallowed, her throat working against the pressure of his hand.
A feral grin split his face. “Good girl.”
He released her throat and hair, grabbing the lapels of her blazer instead. With one sharp, brutal yank, he tore it open. Buttons flew, pinging against the wood floor. He shoved the garment off her shoulders, letting it fall to a heap behind her.
“Now the blouse.”
Her fingers fumbled with the remaining buttons, her movements clumsy with haste and shame. He didn’t help. He watched, arms crossed, his eyes burning. When the last button was free, she let the silk slide down her arms. She stood before him in her lace bra, the skirt, her heels. Her breasts heaved with each breath, straining against the delicate cups.
He made a sound low in his throat—approval, hunger. “On your knees.”
Her gaze flickered to his slacks, to the formidable bulge there. Her mouth watered. A deep, primal ache tightened low in her belly. She sank down, the cool hardwood firm against her knees. She was at eye level with his belt buckle.
He unbuckled it slowly, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room. He unzipped his slacks, and his cock sprang free, already fully, frighteningly erect. It was as he’d promised—thick, veiny, and impossibly long, curving slightly upwards. The head was flushed a deep, ruddy purple, already glistening with a bead of pre-come.
“Look at it,” he said, his voice thick. “This is what a man looks like. Not whatever pathetic, soft little worm your husband tries to feed you.” He wrapped his fist around the base, giving himself a slow, languid stroke. “Now open that pretty, lying mouth.”
She leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. There was no hesitation now, only a desperate, hungry need. She opened her mouth, letting her tongue dart out to wet her lips.
She leaned forward, her lips parting, and took the swollen head into her mouth. It was a deliberate, slow engulfment, her tongue flattening against the veined underside. The taste was salt and musk and him, a flavor that sent a shocking jolt of pure hunger straight to her core.
Boris let out a sharp, guttural “Fuck,” his hands immediately tangling in her hair. He didn’t guide her, not yet. He just held on, watching as her cheeks hollowed with the first deep suction.
She pulled back, letting her saliva slick the length, then took him deeper. Her head bobbed, a practiced, rhythmic motion that betrayed a skill born of secret, lonely imagination. She used her tongue expertly, swirling around the crown, pressing against the frenulum on each upward glide.
“Look at you,” he groaned, his voice thick. His fingers tightened in her hair, a pleasant, grounding ache. “Look at the ice queen, gagging for her husband’s rival. You fucking love this, don’t you?”
She looked up, her green eyes wide and obedient, locking with his. She held his gaze as she took him deeper, her throat opening willingly, accepting more of his length until her nose pressed into his coarse pubic hair. She held it there, her throat fluttering around him, before sliding back with a wet, obscene pop.
“Those eyes,” he muttered, mesmerized. “You look like you’re praying.” He thrust his hips forward slightly, feeding her another few inches. “This is your god now. This cock.”
She redoubled her efforts, her movements turning sloppy and frantic. Saliva dripped from her chin, coating his shaft and balls in a slick sheen. She sucked him greedily, the sounds loud and wet in the quiet study, a filthy symphony of her making.
She pulled off completely, panting, a string of spit and pre-come still connecting her lower lip to his glistening tip. “My husband,” she gasped, the words a broken confession, “he doesn’t…”
“He doesn’t what?” Boris urged, his tone viciously tender. “He doesn’t fuck your pretty face? He doesn’t make you choke on it?”
She shook her head, her submissive eyes never leaving his. Then she dipped her head lower, past his shaft. She nuzzled his heavy, tight balls, drawing one into her mouth with gentle suction.
A deep groan ripped from his chest. “Oh, you clever slut.” His thighs tensed. “Yes. Just like that.”
She serviced his balls with devoted attention, licking and sucking, her fingers gently kneading the sac. She worshiped that part of him too, this complete claiming, making him shudder with a pleasure that was both intimate and deeply degrading.
She returned to his cock with renewed fervor, taking him all the way to the back of her throat again and again, her nose buried in his skin. She gagged slightly, her eyes watering, but she didn’t retreat. She pushed through it, swallowing around him, taking him deeper still until her vision spotted at the edges.
“You have no gag reflex at all,” he breathed, awed and aroused. “You were built for this. Built to be used.” His thrusts into her mouth became more insistent, less controlled. “You’re going to take it all. Every last inch.”
She met his rhythm, her head moving in time with his hips, a perfect, depraved instrument of his pleasure. The room filled with the sound of her submission—the wet sucks, the choked breaths, his escalating curses. She was lost in it, a vessel for his contempt and her own starving need.
“I’m going to come down that pretty throat,” he warned, his voice strained and rough. “And you’re going to swallow every drop. That’s your bonus.”
That’s your bonus.”
His words were the final trigger. A guttural roar tore from his throat as his hips stuttered forward, slamming his cock to the back of her throat. He held her there, one hand fisted brutally in her hair, the other clamping on her jaw. His release was a violent, pulsing flood, hot and bitter, pumping directly down her constricted esophagus.
Julia’s eyes watered, but she didn’t close them.
She kept them locked on his, blurry though his sneering face became, as she swallowed convulsively. Each throb of his cock against her tongue was met with a desperate gulp, her throat working to take everything he gave. She didn’t break the seal of her lips, didn’t let a single drop escape. The intimate violation was absolute, a liquid claim she consumed willingly.
When the final spasm faded, she stayed there for a moment, hollowing her cheeks to milk the last from him. Then, with a soft, wet sound, she released him.
Her lips were slick and swollen. She didn’t wipe her mouth. Instead, she leaned forward and placed a tender, lingering kiss on the flared, over-sensitive tip of his cock, still jutting from his open trousers. The gesture was shockingly intimate, a contrast to the brutality that preceded it.
Then she slowly, deliberately, got to her feet. Her knees ached from the hardwood. She ignored it.
Her gaze never left his as she reached for the clasp of her pencil skirt at her hip. The click of the fastener was deafening. She pushed the tight wool over the curve of her hips, letting it slide down her toned thighs to puddle around her stilettoed feet. She stepped out of it, kicking the garment aside with a contemptuous flick of her foot.
Now she stood before him, in the middle of his study, wearing only her lace bra, a tiny black string thong, and her high heels. The city’s lights through the window painted her skin in streaks of gold and shadow. She arched her back slightly, letting her hands trail down her own sides from her ribs to her hips.
Boris, still exposed, his softening cock glistening with her saliva, watched with raw, predatory hunger. He didn’t move to fix his clothes.
“Well,” he said, his voice rough from exertion. “There’s the real listing.”
“You haven’t seen the full floor plan yet,” she replied, her voice husky. She turned in a slow circle, letting him see the perfect, impossible roundness of her ass, the thin string of the thong bisecting it. She looked at him over her shoulder. “The rear elevation you were so fond of.”
“I want a private showing,” he said, finally tucking himself away and zipping his slacks, the action casual, as if they were discussing market trends. “No brokers. No husbands.”
She faced him again, a small, defiant smile touching her ruined lips. “My husband expects me home.”
“Your husband,” Boris snorted, crossing the space between them in two strides. He didn’t touch her. He circled her instead, a shark assessing. “He’s probably staring at a spreadsheet, trying to figure out how I beat him to the Kuznetsov deal. He doesn’t wonder where you are. He wonders why his numbers are wrong.” He stopped behind her, his breath on her neck. “He never wonders what’s under this.” His finger hooked under the string of her thong at the hip, snapping it against her skin.
She inhaled sharply. “And you do?”
“I don’t wonder.” His hands settled on her bare hips, his thumbs pressing into the dimples of her lower back. “I know. It’s wet. It’s aching. And it’s fucking furious at him for making it wait this long.” He pulled her back against him, letting her feel the renewed hardness straining against his zipper. “Isn’t it?”
She leaned into the pressure, her head falling back against his shoulder. A quiet moan escaped her. “Yes.”
“Say it.” His mouth was at her ear, his voice a command.
“It’s wet for you,” she whispered, the confession shuddering out of her.
One hand slid around from her hip, his fingers slipping beneath the flimsy lace of her bra to roughly palm her breast. He pinched her nipple, rolling the sensitive, puffy flesh between his fingers until she cried out. “And these? Do they get hard for Igor? Or just when you’re thinking about getting bent over my desk?”
“Just the desk,” she gasped, the truth liberating and damning. “Just your desk.”
He spun her around to face him, his eyes blazing. He reached behind her and with a sharp tug, the clasp of her bra gave way. It joined the skirt on the floor. She stood utterly exposed now, her heavy breasts swaying slightly, nipples pebbled tight.
Boris stared, his gaze dropping to her tits, then lower, to the scrap of black lace covering her. “That,” he said, pointing a blunt finger at her thong, “is a formality. And I hate formalities.”
He hooked both thumbs into the sides of the string. His eyes held hers, a challenge and a promise. He began to pull them down, slowly, an excruciating inch at a time.
He began to pull them down, slowly, an excruciating inch at a time. The lace stretched then yielded, revealing the bare swell of her pubic mound, the neatly trimmed strip of dark hair beneath. He peeled the fabric over the curve of her ass, down her thighs, letting it fall to join the others on the floor. The cool air of the study whispered against her skin.
Now she stood before him, her husband’s biggest rival and bully, in all her naked glory and high heels.
Boris let out a low, appreciative whistle. The sound wasn’t gentle; it was the evaluation of a connoisseur assessing a hard-won prize. His eyes traveled from the sharp points of her stilettos, up the sculpted length of her toned calves and thighs, over the furious red marks his fingers had left on her hips, to the deep curve of her waist and the heavy, full breasts with their tight, dusky nipples.
“Fuck me,” he breathed, a raw statement of intent. He shook his head slowly, a smirk playing on his lips. “All this. And he leaves it home to look at spreadsheets.” He took a step closer, his gaze locking on the junction of her thighs. “Look at you. Already glistening for me. You’re fucking dripping.”
She didn’t try to cover herself. She let him look, her chin lifted, her heart a wild drum against her ribs. The humiliation was a fire, but beneath it burned a deeper, brighter heat.
“I imagined,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly rumble, “the moment I saw you walk into that boardroom two years ago, exactly this.” He circled her again, his finger tracing a hot, deliberate line from her shoulder, down her spine, to the top cleft of her ass. “I imagined bending you over that long table. I imagined the sound you’d make.” He stopped behind her, his hands closing on her waist. “But most of all, Julia, I imagined putting these perfect, endless legs up on my shoulders.”
He squeezed her hips, pulling her back against the undeniable hard ridge in his slacks. “I want to see those heels in the air. I want to watch your face while I ruin you.”
A shiver, violent and unbidden, racked her frame. Her nails dug into her own palms.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his lips against her ear. “Cat got your tongue? Or are you just finally listening to what your body’s been screaming since you met me?”
“I’m thinking,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady.
“About?”
“About whether you talk this much when you’re actually inside something,” she replied, throwing his own crude energy back at him.
A sharp, genuine laugh burst from him. He spun her around, his eyes alight with new respect and fiercer hunger. “There she is. The bitch with the price sheet.” He grabbed her face, his grip firm. “I’ll shut up when you scream.”
He kissed her again, a bruising, teeth-clashing claim, then walked her backward until her ass hit the cold, hard edge of the massive oak desk. Scotch glasses rattled. He hooked his hands under her knees and lifted, urging her up. She complied, bracing her hands behind her on the cluttered surface, letting him hoist her until she was seated on the very edge, the wood biting into her bare skin.
“Lie back,” he ordered, his voice leaving no room for anything else.
She lowered herself onto the desk, the leather-bound corner of a ledger digging into her shoulder blade. Her head rested near the forgotten, framed abstract art. She stared up at the dark wood ceiling, her chest rising and falling. The position was profoundly vulnerable, her body a wide-open offering.
Boris stood between her spread knees, looking down at her with a possessiveness that stole her breath. He undid his belt again, the sound of the buckle and the zpper loud and final. He freed his cock, fully hard again, thicker and darker now, a brutal-looking thing jutting from his body. He gave himself a few rough, slow strokes, his eyes never leaving the wet, exposed core of her.
“Tell me,” he said, leaning over her, planting his hands on the desk by her head. “Tell me you’ve never been stretched like you’re about to be.”
She swallowed, her throat dry. “I haven’t.”
“Say his name.” Boris lowered himself, the head of his cock nudging through her folds, finding her wetness but not entering. “Say your husband’s pathetic name while I’m right here.”
Her eyes fluttered closed. “Igor.”
He pushed forward, just an inch, a blunt, shocking invasion. “Again.”
“Igor,” she gasped, her back arching off the desk.
He sank deeper, a slow, relentless penetration that burned with fullness. She cried out, a sharp, broken sound.
“One more time,” he growled, his face inches from hers, his breath hot. “Say it like you’re begging him to save you.”
He thrust the rest of the way in, a single, brutal stroke that buried him to the hilt. Her body strained to accommodate him, a stretching, burning ache that tipped instantly into a pleasure so deep it was dizzying.
“IGOR!” she screamed, not a plea for salvation, but a surrender to the violation.
“That’s right,” Boris panted, holding himself deep, letting her feel every throbbing inch. “Scream for the little man who can’t give you this.” He withdrew slowly, almost completely, watching her face as she whimpered at the loss. Then he drove back in, harder. “This is what you needed. This is what you fucking bought.”
He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust slamming her body up the desk. Her heels scrabbled for purchase on the wood, her legs splayed wide around his hips. The desk groaned in protest. Papers scattered. A glass toppled over, spraying expensive scotch across her thigh.
He fucked her with a focused, degrading intensity, his hands gripping her thighs, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her inner legs. “Look at you,” he grunted, his own control fraying. “Taking it like a fucking champion. My champion.”
She was unraveling, the coil of years of polite, passionless matrimony snapping under the relentless assault. Her hands flew above her head, gripping the desk’s edge, holding on as he pounded into her. Each impact jolted through her, sparking a wildfire along her nerves. She was so full, so utterly claimed, that thought dissolved into pure sensation.
“You gonna come for me, Julia?” His voice was ragged, sweat beading on his temple. “You gonna come on your husband’s rival’s cock?”
She could only nod, a frantic, desperate motion. The pressure was building, a tsunami gathering in the deep, swollen heart of her.
He shifted his angle slightly, leaning over her further, and the new friction against her clit was blinding. She screamed again, a raw, ragged sound torn from a place she didn’t know existed. Her orgasm detonated, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched around his invading length, milking him, pulling him deeper.
The sight of her coming undone, her back arched, her perfect tits shaking, her face contorted in ecstasy, was his undoing. Boris snarled, a feral, triumphant sound. He pistoned into her three more times, deep, grinding strokes, and then slammed home, burying himself as deep as he could go.