Chapter 62: How’s Your Control
The oxfords paced slowly into the room. Alistair Cromwell’s voice was a dry rustle of parchment, the sound of money and precedent. “Henderson is balking at the non-compete. Thinks it’s draconian.”
From her cage under the desk, Stephanie watched the shoes stop a few feet away. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. The intoxicating, musky scent of Veronica’s arousal was trapped here with her, a stark contrast to the sterile office air. She could see the hem of Veronica’s trousers, the subtle tremble in her calf muscle.
“It is draconian,” Veronica replied, her voice miraculously even, layered with its usual controlled sharpness. “That’s the point. It’s meant to be a deterrent, not a promise. If he finds it too restrictive, he can walk. The market will swallow him whole in six months.”
“Your confidence is noted.” A soft thud—a file being placed on the desk. “Review the revised clause in section 4C. I want your gut reaction before the call at two.”
Stephanie heard the rustle of paper. Veronica’s chair shifted minutely. The proximity was maddening. From her angle, she could see the dark shadow where Veronica’s thighs met under the desk. The memory of taste was vivid on her tongue. A reckless, hungry impulse coiled in her gut, tightening low in her own belly.
Slowly, carefully, she reached out. Her fingertips brushed the finely woven wool of Veronica’s trouser leg, just above the knee.
Veronica’s leg stiffened. A barely perceptible hitch in her breathing.
Stephanie’s fingers walked upwards, tracing the inner seam. She found the button, the cool metal of the zipper pull. She glanced toward the oxfords; Alistair had moved to the window, his back partially turned as he looked at the city.
It was now or never.
Her fingers worked with silent precision. The button gave. The zpper slid down with a hushed, metallic sigh that sounded volcanic to her ears.
“The language is still too soft, Alistair,” Veronica said, her tone gaining a fraction more bite, a forced aggression that Stephanie recognized as diversion. “It says ‘shall not directly compete.’ It needs to say ‘shall not directly or indirectly engage in, fund, or advise any competing entity.’ Plug the loophole before he finds it.”
“Hmm.” The oxfords turned back. “Agreed. Draft the tightening.”
As he spoke, Stephanie tugged. The trousers, loosened, slid down the powerful curve of Veronica’s hips. Veronica made a small, choked sound, covering it with a sharp cough.
“You alright, Barlowe?”
“Fine. Dust from the file.” Veronica’s hand, unseen by Alistair, slapped down hard onto the desk, palm flat, bracing.
Stephanie was faced with the bare skin of Veronica’s inner thighs, the soft black cotton of her underwear. She could see the damp patch already soaking through the fabric. Her own breath grew shallow. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of the underwear and pulled them down, too, just enough.
Veronica was exposed. Completely. The neat curls, glistening folds, everything. Stephanie’s mouth watered.
She didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward and pressed her mouth against her, a slow, open-mouthed kiss right on her cunt.
A violent shudder went through Veronica. Her thighs tensed, trying to close, but the desk and Stephanie’s shoulders held them open.
“The indemnity clause is a bigger issue,” Veronica forced out, her voice strangled at the edges. She snatched a pen, scribbling something meaningless on the file. “The liability cap is… a joke.”
Stephanie began to lick. Slow, broad strokes, collecting the slick evidence of her own earlier interruption. She tasted herself, and Veronica, and pure, undiluted power. She lapped at her entrance, teasing, before circling her clit with the very tip of her tongue.
“A joke?” Alistair’s shoes stepped closer. “Explain.”
Veronica’s free hand plunged under the desk, fingers knotting in Stephanie’s hair, not to pull her away, but to hold on, to anchor herself against the tidal wave of sensation. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“Because,” Veronica grated, pushing the word out, “it’s based on projected first-year revenues. Henderson will blow past that in month three. The cap becomes meaningless. We need it tied to asset valuation. Permanent, and painful.”
Stephanie took the small hip movement as invitation. She sealed her lips around Veronica’s clit and sucked, hard.
“Jesus Christ,” Veronica hissed, the curse slipping out.
“Barlowe?”
“Cramps,” she snapped, the lie coming out in a pained gasp. “Period. It’s fine.” Her grip on Stephanie’s hair was vicelike. “Just… give me a second.”
Stephanie intensified her assault. She shoved two fingers deep inside Veronica, curling them, finding that spongy wall instantly. She fucked her with them in a quick, relentless rhythm while her tongue and lips worked her clit.
Veronica was shaking. Her breathing was a ragged, controlled disaster. Each exhale was a soft, punched-out uh sound she tried to mask by shuffling papers. Sweat beaded on her temples. The professional mask was fracturing, a windshield under immense pressure.
“Asset valuation is a moving target,” Alistair argued, but his voice sounded distant, underwater.
“It’s the only… fucking… target that matters,” Veronica managed, every word a monumental effort. Her back arched slightly, her ass lifting off the chair. Stephanie felt the internal muscles begin to flutter around her fingers, a frantic, fluttering pulse. She was close. So close.
Stephanie looked up. From her vantage point, she could see the tense line of Veronica’s jaw, the way she bit her own lip, the sheen of sweat on her neck. She drove her fingers deeper, twisted them, and sucked Veronica’s clit into her mouth with a filthy, wet noise she didn’t bother to mute.
That was it.
Veronica’s whole body locked. A silent, seizing scream contorted her features. Her thighs clamped around Stephanie’s head, a vise of pure pleasure. Stephanie felt the hot gush against her fingers, the frantic, rhythmic pulsing of Veronica’s cunt as she came, utterly helpless, in the middle of a business meeting.
She rode it out, lapping gently, easing her through the storm until the tremors subsided.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of Veronica’s attempted quiet gulps of air and the distant hum of the city.
“You’re pale, Barlowe,” Alistair said, a note of genuine, if gruff, concern in his voice.
“I’ll… be fine. The clause. Change it.” Veronica’s voice was hollow, wrecked. “Now, please. I need a moment.”
“Of course. Draft it and send it by one.” The oxfords retreated. The door opened and closed.
Silence.
Absolute, ringing silence.
Stephanie slowly withdrew her fingers, wiped her mouth on the inside of Veronica’s thigh, and gently pulled her underwear and trousers back into place. She zipped and buttoned them with careful hands.
She didn’t crawl out. She waited.
The chair rolled back violently. Veronica stood up so fast her chair hit the bookshelf. She loomed over the desk, her face a masterpiece of furious, satiated, unraveled rage. Her green eyes were wild, her chest heaving.
Stephanie crawled out from her hiding place, kneeling on the carpet before her, hair disheveled, lips swollen and shiny.
For a ten-count, Veronica just stared down at her, breathing hard. The tension was a live wire.
Then, she moved. A predator’s lunge. She grabbed Stephanie by the collar of her dress and hauled her to her feet, then spun her and shoved her face-first against the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. The entire city sprawled fifty stories below them, tiny and insignificant.
Veronica’s body pressed against her back, hot and solid. Her mouth was at Stephanie’s ear, her breath a hot, angry gust. “You… insane, reckless, perfect little fille.”
Her hands pushed Stephanie’s skirt up around her waist. There was no finesse, no preamble. Veronica tore the flimsy lace of Stephanie’s panties to the side. Stephanie gasped, her cheek smeared against the cool glass, the dizzying view of the drop below making her knees weak.
She was already soaked. Dripping.
Veronica spat roughly onto her fingers, a crude, visceral sound, and shoved them inside her without warning. Stephanie cried out, back arching, taking the full, brutal penetration.
“You like that?” Veronica snarled, pumping her fingers, her other hand splayed across Stephanie’s stomach, pinning her to the window. “You like making me come in front of my fucking boss? You like almost destroying my career?”
“Yes!” Stephanie gasped, the truth torn from her. “Yes, I liked it!”
Veronica bit her shoulder, hard, through the fabric. “You’re a demon.” She added a third finger, stretching her, the burn a brilliant counterpoint to the sharp pleasure. “This wet little cunt is a demon.” She fucked her with deep, punishing strokes, her hips grinding against Stephanie’s ass. “You wanted to play? Now we play.”
She withdrew her fingers, slick and glistening. Stephanie whimpered at the loss. She heard the rasp of Veronica’s zipper, the rustle of clothing. Then the blunt, insistent pressure of Veronica’s cock—the thick, silicon strap—pressing against her entrance.
Stephanie braced herself. Veronica didn’t enter her. She rubbed the head up and down her soaked slit, teasing her own clit with the motion, coating the shaft in Stephanie’s wetness.
“Please,” Stephanie begged, pushing back against her.
“Please what?” Veronica’s voice was gravel.
“Fuck me. Now.”
With a grunt, Veronica thrust forward, burying herself to the hilt in one brutal, claiming stroke. Stephanie screamed, the sound muffled against the glass. The impact drove the air from her lungs. It was too much, a glorious, shocking fullness.
Veronica set a ruthless pace immediately, no warm-up, no gentle build. Each powerful drive of her hips slammed Stephanie against the window, the glass vibrating. The city watched, blind. One of Veronica’s hands fisted in her long hair, pulling her head back. The other hand snaked around her hip, fingers finding her clit, rough and demanding.
“You belong right here,” Veronica panted into her ear, her accent thick and mangled by lust. “Taking my cock. Being my good, filthy girl. My secret.” Her fingers circled Stephanie’s clit, pinching lightly, then rubbing hard in time with her thrusts.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. The deep, pounding fullness and the sharp, direct friction on her clit coiled a spring in Stephanie’s belly, tighter and tighter with every slam of Veronica’s hips. She was babbling, a mix of French and English pleas, curses, prayers.
“I’m gonna come,” she sobbed. “Veronica, please, I’m gonna—”
“Come.” It was an order. Final.
The orgasm detonated through her, white-hot and shattering. Her vision bleached out, the cityscape dissolving into a blur of light. Her cunt clenched violently around the strap, milking it, waves of pleasure wracking her so hard her knees buckled. Veronica held her up, fucking her relentlessly through the convulsions, extending the pleasure into a near-painful ecstasy.
Only when Stephanie’s cries had faded to whimpers did Veronica’s rhythm stutter. She pressed deep, holding there, her own body rigid against Stephanie’s back as she rode out her own second, silent climax, her forehead damp against Stephanie’s shoulder.
They stayed like that for a long minute, pinned between the cold, indifferent glass and the heat of their own bodies, suspended above the world. The only sounds were their ragged breaths fogging the window.
Slowly, gently, Veronica withdrew. She turned Stephanie around, her hands now tender, framing her face. She looked into Stephanie’s dazed, blissful eyes, at her smudged lipstick and tear-streaked cheeks.
She kissed her. Deep, slow, and devastatingly soft.
When she pulled back, her green eyes were clear, the storm passed, leaving something terrifyingly raw in its wake. She rested her forehead against Stephanie’s.
“You are going to be the death of me, Stephanie James,” she whispered, no grumpiness left, only a stark, undeniable truth.