Chapter 2: Office Fantasies and the Devil's Mouth
His finger was still inside her, a thick, claiming presence that made her feel impossibly full even as she craved more. The aftershocks of her first climax still trembled through her, but a new, deeper hunger was already coiling in its wake. He shifted beneath her, his free hand settling on her hip, holding her firmly in place as she straddled his lap.
“Look at me, Teresa.”
Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dazed, focused on his. The blue was sharp, intent, seeing everything.
“Imagine we’re in your office,” he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble. “Right now. You’re in your chair. Or maybe you’re on the edge of your desk. And I’m right here, between your legs.”
He began to move his finger, a slow, deliberate slide in and out. The sound was obscenely wet in the quiet room. Her breath hitched.
“The door’s unlocked,” he continued, his thumb finding her clit, applying a firm, circular pressure that made her hips jerk. “Cho could walk in. Van Pelt. Any second. They’d see their boss, their unshakable Lisbon, with her pants shoved down to her ankles and my fingers buried in her cunt.”
“Oh, god,” she whimpered, the image searing itself into her mind. The risk. The sheer, terrifying exposure of it. It shouldn’t arouse her. It did. Profoundly.
“What would you do?” he pressed, his pace quickening, his finger fucking into her with more purpose now. “Would you try to push me away? Try to act like nothing was happening?” His thumb pressed harder, circling ruthlessly. “Or would you just sit there and take it, hoping they wouldn’t notice how hard you’re trying not to scream?”
She couldn’t answer. Her world had narrowed to the relentless rhythm of his hand, the filthy pictures he was painting in her head, the certain, thrilling knowledge that she would not, could not, stop him. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her body bowing forward as the pressure built, a tight, screaming knot at her core.
“Come on, Teresa,” he growled, his breath hot against her ear. “Come all over my hand. Let me feel you lose control just thinking about it.”
It was the permission, the command, that broke her. A raw, guttural cry was torn from her throat as her body seized, clenching violently around his finger. Pleasure, white-hot and shocking, detonated through her, wave after wave of it, until she was shuddering, collapsing against his chest, her entire being focused on the pulsing, convulsing release he was ruthlessly milking from her.
For a long moment, the only sound was her ragged, sobbing breaths. He held her through it, his hand still between her legs, his touch gentling to soft, soothing strokes.
When the last tremor had subsided, he carefully lifted her, laying her back on the rumpled sheets. Her body felt liquid, boneless. He arranged her with a quiet authority, placing her head on the pillow, bending her knees and spreading her legs wide apart.
A flicker of uncertainty returned. This was different. This was being put on display. She instinctively tried to close her thighs.
“No,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. He placed a hand on each of her knees, holding them open. “I want to see you. All of you.”
She looked up at him, her vulnerability a physical ache. “Patrick…”
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, and the raw sincerity in his voice stilled her protest. His gaze was a physical caress, traveling the length of her body, lingering on the dark thatch of curls, the swollen, glistening lips of her sex, still quivering from his touch. “Every part of you.”
She believed him. She let her legs fall open, offering herself to his sight completely.
He stood then, beside the bed, and began to undress. His eyes never left her. He pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the lean, taut muscle of his torso. His fingers worked the button of his jeans, then the zipper. He pushed them down, along with his boxers, and kicked them away. He was fully, magnificently erect, his cock standing thick and heavy against his stomach.
He was beautiful. All sharp angles and smooth skin and intent. He watched her watching him, a small, possessive smile playing on his lips as he saw the hunger return to her eyes.
Then he crawled up the bed, moving with a predator’s grace. He didn’t kiss her mouth. He moved down her body, his hands sliding up the insides of her thighs, pushing them even wider. He lowered his head between her legs.
The first touch of his tongue was a lightning strike. A flat, slow, deliberate lick from her entrance all the way up to her clit. She cried out, her back arching off the bed.
“Oh, fuck, Patrick…”
He didn’t answer with words. He answered with his mouth. He buried his face in her, his tongue plunging inside her, fucking her with it, mimicking the act they both knew was coming. He lapped at her, drank from her, his stubble a delicious, rough friction against her tender inner thighs. Then he focused on her clit, sucking the sensitive bud into the heat of his mouth, his tongue flicking over it with a devastating, rapid precision.
It was too much. She was too sensitive, too raw from her previous climaxes. She twisted, her hands fisting in the sheets. “I can’t… it’s too… oh god…”
He held her hips down, pinning her in place. His assault was relentless, expert, knowing exactly how to take her right to the edge and push her over. The pressure built again, faster this time, a sharp, climbing crest that left no room for thought, only sensation.
She came with a shattered scream, her body convulsing under his mouth, her vision whiting out. He didn’t stop. He gentled his touch, soothing her through the first climax with soft, lapping kisses, but he didn’t pull away. As the last waves receded, he began again, his tongue circling, his lips nibbling, building the fire once more from the embers he’d just left behind.
“No, please… Patrick, I can’t again…” she sobbed, her body oversensitive to the point of pain.
“You can,” he murmured against her wet flesh, his voice thick with her taste. “And you will. Give me one more.”
His mouth found a new rhythm, slower, deeper, more intimate. It wasn’t just about frantic pleasure now; it was a claiming. He was worshipping her, learning her, committing every gasp and shudder to memory. The coil tightened again, impossibly, a deep, throbbing ache that spread from her core through her entire body. This climax was different—deeper, fuller, a rolling, endless wave that pulled a long, low moan from the depths of her soul. She ground herself against his face, her control utterly gone, lost in the sublime torture of his mouth.
When he finally lifted his head, she was wrecked. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, her body was slick with sweat, and she trembled from head to toe. He moved up her body, hovering over her, his own breathing ragged. He kissed her, and she could taste herself on his lips, a musky, intimate flavor that was now theirs.
He looked down at her, his expression stripped bare of all its usual clever masks. There was only awe, and possession, and a love so deep it was terrifying.
“Now,” he said, his voice rough with need. “Now I’m going to be inside you.”
He didn’t ask. He didn’t position her with gentle hands. He simply shifted his weight, his body caging hers, the hard, hot length of him pressing against her soaked entrance. The blunt head of his cock nudged at her, a promise and a threat, slick with her own arousal and the wetness from his mouth.
She gasped, her eyes wide, her body instinctively arching to meet him. Her hands came up to his shoulders, not to push him away, but to hold on. The world had narrowed to this single, impending point of connection.
“Look at me,” he breathed, his voice ragged, his forehead damp against hers. “I want to see your eyes when I fill you up.”
Then he pushed.
It wasn’t a gentle slide. It was a claiming. A thick, burning stretch that stole the air from her lungs. He was big, and she was so tight, her body resisting for a fraction of a second before yielding, opening for him with a shocking, wet give. He sank into her with a single, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, devastating motion.
A sharp, broken cry was torn from her throat. Her nails dug into his skin. The feeling of being so completely filled, so utterly penetrated, was beyond anything she had ever known. It was invasion and completion, all at once.
He held himself there, deep inside her, not moving. His body was trembling with the effort of his stillness. His blue eyes were dark, wild, locked on hers, reading every flicker of shock and pleasure that crossed her face.
“Jesus, Teresa,” he choked out, his voice thick with awe. “You’re so fucking tight. I can feel you pulsing around me.”
He began to move. A slow, deliberate withdrawal that made her whimper at the loss, followed by a hard, sure thrust back into that deep, perfect place. He set a punishing rhythm from the start, each drive of his hips slamming the breath from her body, the wet, slapping sound of their joining filling the room.
“Is this what you wanted?” he growled, his mouth against her neck, his teeth grazing her skin. “When you were packing those fucking suitcases? Was this what you were really running from?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, the confession ripped from her. “God, yes.”
“Tell me,” he demanded, his pace quickening, his cock hitting a spot deep inside her that made her see stars. “Tell me you feel how deep I am.”
“I feel it,” she cried out, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper still. “You’re so deep, Patrick. Don’t stop.”
He drove into her, again and again, his thrusts becoming rougher, more frantic. The bed rocked against the wall. She was mindless, a creature of pure sensation, meeting him thrust for thrust, her heels digging into the small of his back. The coil of her third climax was already tightening, a brutal, inevitable wave gathering force from the very depths of her being.
“I’m gonna come,” he gasped, his control finally shattering. “I’m gonna fill that perfect cunt. You come with me.”
That was all it took. His words, the raw, filthy promise of it, tipped her over the edge. Her world exploded into blinding, white-hot pleasure, her inner muscles clamping down on him in a series of violent, milking spasms. She screamed, a raw, uninhibited sound as the climax tore through her.
He shouted her name, a guttural, broken sound, and drove into her one last, final time, his body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside her in hot, pulsing jets.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the faint, wet sounds of their still-joined bodies. He collapsed atop her, his weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in her neck. She could feel the frantic beat of his heart against her own, slowly beginning to slow.
He was inside her. He was still inside her. And for the first time in years, the haunting silence in her mind was completely, perfectly gone.