Page 13 of His for Christmas
I let him. I did more than that—I kissed him back. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him down to me, to my level. His hands went under my skirt, curving around my ass and lifting one thigh so that when he pressed me against the copy machine, my sex was flush against him. Even through the clothes I could feel his erection. Feel the heat of him.
That wasn’t enough for him. Not enough for a man used to taking what he wanted.
He lifted me onto the copy machine, so I was sitting on it—no, lying down on it. He spread me out and stole my panties. He took over my body with the control and precision he must apply to business, and I was bared to him, spread open, left without any defenses.
He stared down at my pussy so long I began to squirm, acutely aware of the hard plastic lid I was lying on top of. My head barely rested on the edge of the copier. When his eyes met mine, they were molten—dark, almost red, or maybe that was just the reflection from the Empty Tray light.
“I can’t wait to taste you,” he said, his voice low, and excitement raced through me. Especially when he leaned down and placed his mouth against my lower lips—oh God, especially then. He kissed me there without any hesitation or delay, as if he really couldn’t wait, as if he needed to lap at my tender skin, as if he was desperate to press his tongue between them and draw out my juices.
His moan vibrated through my skin, the movement almost excruciating against my clit, in the very best way. My legs stiffened in reaction, falling off the edge of the copier. He caught them and put them on his shoulders. His hold on my thighs widened me, opened me to him, so he could press his face even deeper against me, sliding his tongue up and down the slick folds until I thought I would scream.
“Please, please, please,” I moaned.
His gaze met mine. “What do you need, Angel? Tell me.”
He wanted me to say it, and just the thought of it, the faint humiliation of begging and the prospect of being denied, made me clench. He noticed—because his finger was inside me now. He’d slipped it in when I was busy writhing against his mouth, so wrapped up in his tongue and my clit that I’d hardly noticed the intrusion. But I noticed it now as my muscles squeezed him tight, just that one finger—how would it feel to have something thicker? Like two fingers, three? Like his cock, pulsing and heavy, wrapped with latex and shoved inside me?
“Make me come,” I whispered.
His expression was strained, almost desperate, and he went at his task like a man starving. He ate at my pussy with harsh, angry strokes, using his lips and his tongue and even his teeth to bring me to the edge.
“Not yet.”
I gasped a breath. “Mr. Thompson.”
He groaned. “Jesus. Not yet.”
It took all my strength not to come, all my willpower as my body surged toward orgasm, hovering on the brink. I shuddered on top of the copy machine, writhed against the plastic made warm by my body, almost turned on by the faint texture of the casing, by the cool wash of air from the vent above us. Every touch on my skin turned me on—because of him. Because he was here, staring at me like he’d never seen anything sexier. Because he was touching me, tasting me.
Because he made me wait.
“I want to see you again. Want to see those pretty tits flush pink when you come.”
A shudder ran through my body. My arms were boneless, useless, bound at my sides by their own sex-drenched laxity, and he used his free hand to unbutton my shirt. He pulled the cloth aside and tugged the bra down, all while steadily, slowly pumping his finger inside me. And then another, stretching me, giving me the faintest burn as my walls accommodated the extra width.
“What did I say I’d do to your nipples?”
“M-m-my nipples?” My voice was shaky, trembling. My whole body was trembling.
“That’s right, baby. What am I going to do to them?”
“You’re going to make them wet. With your mouth.”
His dark gaze was approving. “That’s when you come. When my lips are wrapped around your nipple, I want you to come on my hand. Understand?”
He didn’t wait for my answer. His hand sped up, circling my clit, almost there, already painful. That was how he wanted it: painful. This was what he longed for, what he needed, what he gave in to sometimes. With a woman he paid, like me. Only not like me, because they usually came from an agency. Me, I’d gone through HR.
