“You can have it. Have me.” It’s so decadent to have such a frank, intimate conversation with Byron that I lose control of my neck, my head falling back. “I’m your little s—”
He stamps his mouth down over mine. “Don’t say it,” he growls. “Don’t you dare say it. You are not that. You are a fucking goddess and I’m a bastard, apparently. Jesus.”
We just breathe like that, against each other’s lips, for long moments, his erection stuffed up against my sated sex. Still hungry. I am compelled to slide off the desk and get on my knees, let him use my mouth. I would give my entire life for the chance to taste him there. But I’ve just kissed him, received pleasure from him. Not to mention, he’s stolen the veil off of some dark, deeply rooted need inside of me. The last thing I want to do is push too hard, shatter his resolve to feel no enjoyment and ruin everything. Ruin the best moments of my life.
“Byron,” I whisper, stroking my hands down the sides of his face. “Maybe it’s okay to be a little wrong sometimes? If we both like it?”
He’s already shaking his head.
In one quick movement, he pulls me off the desk and tugs my skirt back into place, stepping back and swiping a hand across his mouth. “I’m sorry, Jane.” He tries to sound formal, but the apology comes out ragged, instead. “I’ll see myself out.”
He’s gone before I can say another word or implore him to stay.
Just gone.
And I’m left shaken, moved, heartbroken, elated. A pummeling of emotions that I can’t stand, but can’t stand to live without, either. I have no idea what I’m going to do. But I know I’m addicted to Byron DeWitt. My obsession has just plunged to a new depth…
…and I’m powerless to do anything but explore it.
Four
Byron
It’s raining. The sky is an eerie shade of gray, the air rife with electricity.
The hair on my arm stands on end. A sick feeling weighs down my stomach.
I haven’t been able to think straight since walking out of Jane’s office yesterday morning. I alternate between feeling like a stranger in my own skin…and feeling at home there. The name I called her is unconscionable. I’ve never said those words out loud in my entire life, never even thought them about someone. And yet, when her perfect mouth was panting against mine, my thumb stroking the slick flesh of her pussy, those words felt like the most natural thing in the world. When she said, “Tell me what I am,” it was as though someone whispered the answer in my ear, telling me what she would like, what would finish her.
That whisper was right.
As soon as I called her a little slut, she started shaking, moisture rushing around the spot where I touched her. During those moments where she panted through her orgasm, it was very difficult to be conflicted about what I said. I could only be triumphant. Satisfied. Relieved that in my limited experience, I made this gorgeous, dynamic woman feel pleasure. But did the end justify the means? Who the hell speaks like that to a woman?
Not me.
I don’t.
Yet I did. And I’m not sure I wouldn’t do it again to see her tremble and whimper like that once more. She liked it. Liked the way I spoke to her. Does that make what I called her all right? What does it mean about me that when I think back to that moment, when I called her that vile name, my cock turns stiff as a brick?
Before I turn down the main avenue on my way to buy a cup of coffee, I adjust my erection in my briefs, wincing over the chafed skin. I’ve been more or less hard since yesterday, my hand itching to jack off. But I can’t. I can’t let myself experience the exhilaration of release. That constitutes pleasure. That would be enjoyment. I’ve sworn off anything that isn’t professional and necessary to my livelihood. What’s worse? If I took my dick in my hand and started pumping, I would be replaying the scene from yesterday in Jane’s office in my head. I would replay that moment when I called Jane that disgusting word and it would push me over the edge. Physically. Maybe mentally. Into a place I shouldn’t go. I can’t go there.
Staying away from her is proving difficult, however.
Extremely hard.
I spent the night scrolling through her Instagram account, which did not help matters at all. I came away more aroused than ever. Her pictures are tasteful. Artistic. Shots of the parties she has planned. Up close angles of paper roses, cast in the light of a lantern. The decimated carcass of a pinata. A vintage photo booth with a group of women laughing inside. There are only a few pictures of Jane, herself. And they are sexy in way that tightens my balls, drags them up into my stomach. She is dressed professionally in all of them, but there is always a hint of something. A swath of exposed midriff. A high slit in her skirt. Hard nipples.