Chapter 15: The Performance Too Convincing
He stayed inside her, breathing heavily against her back, the sweat cooling between them. Krissy stayed bent over the desk, her cheek flat on the wood, her mind a whirlwind of triumph and revulsion. She had it. Every vile, self-incriminating word was stored in the tiny device in her purse. The performance was over.
But Tyler was not done.
His hands tightened on her hips. He pulled out of her slowly, a deliberate, wet separation that made her gasp. Before she could process the movement, he was flipping her onto her stomach on the deep pile of the carpet. The air left her lungs in a whoosh.
“On your knees,” he grunted, his voice thick with a possessive arrogance that chilled her blood.
He yanked her hips up, forcing her into a crude, submissive arch. Her palms scraped against the carpet fibers. She could see the edge of the desk, her purse with its hidden eye, and the crumpled legal documents. The scene was perfectly framed.
He positioned himself behind her, his knees nudging her thighs wider apart. She felt the blunt, still-wet head of his cock press against her swollen entrance. He didn’t ask. He didn’t tease.
He slammed into her.This was different. This wasn’t the frantic taking against the desk. This was deeper, more punitive, a thorough claiming. Each thrust jolted her entire body forward, a sickening rhythm of flesh on flesh. The wet, slapping sounds filled the quiet room, obscene and relentless.
Krissy bit her lip, trying to hold onto the performance, to keep the moans calculated and false. But the angle was devastating. He hit a place inside her that sparked a traitorous, physical response, a deep internal friction that had nothing to do with consent and everything to do with nerve endings.
A real, ragged moan escaped her. It was a sound of pure, unwanted sensation.
“That’s it,” Tyler panted above her, his voice a guttural vibration. He wrapped one hand around her torso, holding her steady. The other hand fisted in her long blonde hair, close to the scalp. He pulled.
A sharp, delicious pain lit up her neck. Her head was wrenched back, her spine curving further. The change in angle made him feel even bigger, even deeper. She cried out, the sound strangled.
“You love this, don’t you?” he snarled, pounding into her. “You love being my little fuck-toy. You love knowing your pathetic husband is sitting at home while I ruin his wife.”
The words were meant to degrade, and they did. But they were also gasoline on the fire of her body’s humiliating betrayal. Her cunt clenched around him, a spasm of pure physiological reaction. She tried to hate it. She tried to focus on Tim’s face, on Madison’s worried eyes, on the mission.
But her body was arching back into his thrusts. A thin, helpless string of drool escaped her lips as he pulled her hair. Her eyes were squeezed shut, but she could feel them rolling back in her head, a whiteout of reluctant, shocking pleasure. It was a betrayal so complete it felt like dying.
Then he leaned down, his mouth close to her ear, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more frantic. His breath was hot and smelled of whiskey. The words he growled next weren’t about ownership or degradation.
“I love you,” he rasped, the confession ripped from him with each drive of his hips. “God, Krissy, I fucking love you. This… you feel it. I know you feel it.”
The shock of it was an ice bath. Her eyes flew open. The pleasure curdled, mixing with a nauseating wave of pity and horror. This wasn’t just about power or revenge for him. It was a twisted, fucked-up confession. He was falling in love with his own corruption.
The hidden camera captured it all: the brutal, relentless thrusts, the way her body shuddered and shook not just from force but from unwanted, deepening arousal, the moment his face contorted not in cruelty but in a warped kind of passion as he said those three awful words.
His rhythm shattered. He slammed into her one final, grinding time and held there, burying himself to the hilt. A raw, animal groan tore from his throat as he came, pumping his release deep inside her with a series of sharp, possessive jerks. He collapsed over her back, his weight pressing her into the carpet, his face buried in her hair. “I love you,” he muttered again, a hoarse, broken whisper against her skin.
Krissy lay still, crushed, filled with him, her mind screaming. The mission was a catastrophic success. She had more than she’d bargained for.