Chapter 34: Alma's lips press against the growing bulge in Enzo's slacks, her hot breath seeping through the fabric as he continues snarling into the phone. She works him with slow, wet kisses along his shaft, her tongue tracing the outline of his cock until his free hand fists in her hair. The moment he throws the phone across the room with a curse, she's already unzipping him, freeing his thick erection to slap against her cheek before she takes him deep, her throat relaxing around his girth as he growls
The silence in Enzo’s London study was a different creature from the jet’s hum or the restaurant’s murmur. It was a heavy, pressurized thing, thick with the dust of legal folders and the ghost of expensive cigar smoke. Alma let it press against her eardrums as she placed the folio of sponsor contracts on the vast, empty desk. Enzo stood at the window, his back to her, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid hanging from his fingers. The set of his shoulders was a topographic map of tension.
Sergio had been petulant during the engineering debrief, resisting the proposed setup changes for Silverstone. A rookie in a simulator had posted a suspiciously fast time, stirring whispers. The Italian press was digging into old financials. Every thread Enzo pulled seemed to tighten a noose elsewhere.
“The revisions from LexTec are insufficient,” Alma said, her voice cleaving the quiet. “Clause 7b still gives them final approval on image usage during race weekends. It’s a veto power.”
“I know what it gives them,” Enzo said, not turning. He took a slow drink. The ice cubes clinked like dull chimes.
She remained by the desk, watching the line of his spine through the fine Egyptian cotton of his shirt. The frustration radiated from him in heatless waves. It was a tangible entity in the room, and she felt an answering pulse deep within her own body—not fear, but a keen, specific hunger. She remembered his words in the dark mews house. My dirty, greedy little secret. A secret needed tending.
She moved. Not towards the door, but around the periphery of the room, her heels silent on the Persian rug. She stopped at the bookcase, pretending to examine a spine, her body angled towards him. He ignored her, lost in the city’s grey panorama and his own corrosive thoughts.
Her fingers, unseen by him, went to the button of her tailored trousers. She popped it free. The slide of the zipper was a breath of sound. She pushed the fabric down over her hips, just enough, and stepped out of them, folding them neatly over a leather armchair. She did the same with her panties, a scrap of black silk. Then, clad only in her heels, her tailored blazer, and the simple camisole beneath, she walked towards him.
He heard her approach. He didn’t turn. She stopped behind him, close enough to feel the heat from his body, to smell the whiskey and the faint, clean scent of his skin. She pressed her forehead between his shoulder blades, her hands resting lightly on his hips. He stiffened, but didn’t pull away.
“You’re thinking in circles,” she whispered against his back. “Let it go.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “And how do you propose I do that?”
In answer, she slid her hands around to the front of his trousers. She found the hard line of his cock, already a solid weight against the fine wool, and palmed him through the fabric. He drew a sharp breath. She rubbed him, slowly, a firm, rhythmic pressure. He was softening, trapped in his own agitation, but the flesh began to respond to her insistence, thickening under her hand.
“Alma,” he warned, but his voice lacked conviction.
“Shhh,” she murmured, nuzzling his back. She continued to stroke him, feeling him grow, the outline becoming unmistakable, straining against his zip. She dropped to her knees behind him. The carpet was rough against her bare skin. She pressed her face against the back of his thigh, her hands sliding around to cup his ass, pulling him slightly back towards her. She mouthed him through the trousers, her lips and teeth grazing the crease of his ass, the dense muscle of his thigh. A low, grinding groan escaped him.
Her hands went to his belt. The heavy leather slid free with a hiss. The buckle clattered to the floor. She unfastened his button, drew down his zipper. He didn’t help, but he didn’t stop her. She tugged his trousers and briefs down just enough to free him. He sprang out, heavy and full, the tip already wet. She didn’t touch him with her hands. Instead, she leaned forward and nuzzled the length of him, her cheek against his heated skin, her lips brushing his shaft. She inhaled deeply, committing his scent to memory—musky, male, uniquely Enzo.
She worshiped him like that, on her knees behind him, as he stared blindly out at London. She licked the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, traced the prominent vein on the underside of his cock with the very tip of her tongue. She took his balls, one at a time, into the warm, safe harbor of her mouth, rolling them gently. She was reverent, thorough, a silent devotee tending to a angry god. His breathing deepened, coarsened. One of his hands left the tumbler and came to rest, fingers splayed, on the cold window glass.
He was fully, achingly hard. She could feel the tension in his body beginning to transmute, to flow from his mind into this single, furious point of sensation. She wanted it all. She opened her mouth and took just the head of his cock inside, sucking softly, her tongue dancing over the slit.
A shudder ran through him. “Enough.” His voice was a graveled command.
He snapped his fingers. Once. Sharp, definitive, the sound cracking the room’s silence.
It was the signal. The permission. The demand.
She pulled back, letting him slip from her lips with a wet sound. She waited.
He finally turned. His face was a mask of controlled fury, his eyes black in the shadowed light. He looked down at her, kneeling nearly naked at his feet, her lips swollen, her eyes wide and dark. He grasped her under her arms, his grip brutal, and hauled her up. He walked her backwards, not to the sofa, but to the massive, polished desk. He swept the LexTec contracts onto the floor with a crash of paper.
“Turn around. Bend over. Put your hands flat on the desk.”
She complied, the cold, polished wood a shock against her palms and her bare belly. Her blazer rucked up around her shoulders. He kicked her feet wider. He was behind her, a solid, menacing presence. She felt the blunt, slick head of his cock press against her entrance. He was wet from her mouth. She was dripping for him, had been since she unzipped her trousers.
He didn’t enter her. He pushed, insistent, demanding. She tried to arch back, to take him, but he held her hips still.
“No,” he growled. “You wanted to be my release valve? Then be still. Take it. Don’t help.”
He expected a fight, a struggle for control, the fiery resistance he’d come to anticipate. Instead, Alma went utterly slack. She released every muscle, surrendered all autonomy. Her head dropped between her shoulders. Her arms bore her weight. She became an object, a vessel, a cocksleeve. Her complete submission was a weapon he hadn’t expected.
With a grunt of pure need, he drove forward. There was no slow penetration, no gradual accommodation. He filled her in one deep, wrenching stroke, burying himself to the root, his pelvis slamming against her ass. The air punched from her lungs in a silent gasp. He was so deep she felt split open, impaled. He didn’t move, just held himself there, fully seated, letting her feel every inch, every throbbing vein.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the curse one of awe and relief. “You’re so fucking deep.”
Then he began. His thrusts were not rhythmic, but frantic, jagged, a physical purging of all his pent-up frustration. He fucked her with a punishing, uneven pace, his hands clamped on her hips for leverage. The desk shuddered with each impact. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of skin on skin, his ragged grunts, the creak of the heavy wood.
“Is this what you need?” she managed, her voice strained, muffled by the desk. “Is this helping?”
“Shut up,” he snarled, hammering into her. “Just be my good little hole. My perfect, fuckable stress relief.”
The filth spurred him on. He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his mouth at her ear. “You love this, don’t you? You love being used like a cheap whore on my desk. You love that I don’t have to be gentle.”
“Yes,” she hissed, the affirmation ripped from her.
He fucked her harder, deeper, if that were possible. One hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, rough and unsubtle. The dual assault—the deep, brutal fullness and the abrasive friction on her sensitive nerve—was too much. She came suddenly, violently, her inner muscles clenching around his invading cock in a series of frantic, fluttering spasms. A broken, choked cry escaped her.
Feeling her convulse around him tore the last vestige of his control. His thrusts lost all coordination, becoming a wild, driving rut. He buried his face in her neck, biting down on the tendon as his own orgasm roared through him. He poured himself into her, hot and seemingly endless, each pulse a surrender, a release of the poison he’d been carrying. He collapsed over her, his weight pinning her to the cold desk, his breathing a harsh roar in her ear.
They stayed like that, locked together, spent. The only sound was their syncing, slowing breaths. Slowly, he softened and slipped out. A hot rush followed, staining her inner thighs.