Page 106 of Nash
His grip tightens. "There are consequences for bratty behavior."
"You keep saying that. I'm still waiting to see what—"
He spins me around, one hand on my hip, the other on the back of my neck, and walks me backward through the supply closet door. His boot kicks it shut. The latch catches. There are shelves on three sides. The space is barely big enough for two people, and it's dark except for the light bleeding under the door. Ink, antiseptic, and sandalwood smell sharp in the closed air.
"Nash, we're at work—"
"Frankie left ten minutes ago. The shop is empty." His fingers tighten in my hair, tilting my head back until my throat is exposed. "You've been pushing me all afternoon. Time to find out what happens when you push past the line."
He presses me against the shelf, his body flush against mine, and bottles rattle behind my shoulders. His thigh slides between my legs, pressing up hard. The pressure against my pussy through my jeans pulls a sound out of me that bounces off every wall in this tiny room. I can feel how swollen I am, how wet. Theseam of my jeans grinds against my clit with every shift of his thigh.
"Hands on the shelf," he says. "Don't move them."
I grip the shelf behind me. The wood bites into my palms.
He holds my gaze while his free hand moves down my body. Over my breast, his thumb dragging across my nipple through my shirt until I arch into his touch. Down my ribs. Across my stomach, the muscles jump under his fingers. He reaches the waistband of my jeans and stops.
"Please," I whisper.
"Please what?"
"Touch me. Nash, please."
He unbuttons my jeans with one hand, pulls the zipper down, then slides his hand inside my underwear. His fingers find me soaked, my pussy drenched, my clit swollen and throbbing. The groan he makes against my ear vibrates through my chest, my stomach, and settles between my legs.
"Fuck, Ruby." His voice is rough, the composure cracking at the edges. "You're this wet from holding his arm?"
"From watching you watch me hold his arm. There's a—" His finger slides through my folds, parting me, and the rest of the sentence dies. "Oh god."
He circles my clit with two fingers firmly, spreading the wetness, pressing against the swollen bud until my hips buck against his hand. His other hand stays at the back of my neck, holding me in place, his mouth on the side of my throat. His teeth graze my pulse point, and I feel the scrape all the way down my spine.
"You wanted a reaction," he says against my neck, his lips brushing my skin between words. "Here's the reaction." His fingers speed up, pressing harder, finding the rhythm that makes my knees buckle. "I'm going to get you close. Then I'm going to stop. You're going to walk back to your station,then work your next client with your pussy throbbing and your panties soaked, because that's what happens when you provoke me during business hours."
"Nash, you can't—"
"I can." He slides two fingers inside me, curling forward, his thumb taking over on my clit, and my walls clench around him immediately, pulling him deeper. My hips grind into his hand in desperate rolls I can't control, my knuckles white on the shelf, bottles clinking behind me.
"Oh fuck, Nash, right there. Don't stop. Right—"
His fingers curl harder inside me, pressing against the spot that makes my back arch off the shelf, his thumb circling my clit faster, tighter. The orgasm builds like a wave cresting. My thighs shake, my pussy is clenching in rhythmic pulses around his fingers. My mouth is open, and my eyes are squeezed shut. I'm right there, right at the edge—
He pulls his hand out of my jeans.
The scream that comes out of me bounces off every surface in the closet. My body contracts around nothing, my pussy clenching on empty, and I grip the shelf so hard a bottle of cyan topples off and shatters on the floor. My legs nearly give out. His thigh between mine is the only thing holding me up.
"NASH."
"Rule three." He brings his fingers to his mouth, wet, glistening, and licks them clean while I watch, my chest heaving, my body vibrating against the shelf. "You taste like a woman who's going to behave for the rest of the afternoon."
"I am going to MURDER you. I am going to murder you slowly and creatively and with TOOLS—"
He zips my jeans. Buttons them. Steps back, withdrawing his thigh, and the loss of pressure makes me whimper. His jaw is set, his breathing even, his face composed while I'm shaking againsta shelf with ink pooling around my boots and my fingernails carved into the wood.
"Your three o'clock is in thirty minutes," he says.
"I hate you. I hate you with my entire body, which is currently on FIRE—"
"You're going to take a breath, fix your hair, walk back to your station, and do your job." He opens the closet door and light floods in. "And tonight, I'm taking you to Vesper."
