Declan's Demand

His eyes narrow and a lock of dark hair falls fo

rward. My fingers reach to move it but stop when he advances toward me. I turn, scoping out exits, knowing he’s the one thing between me and the door.

False bravado carries me as I glance over my shoulder, cocking my hip to the side before snidely replying, “As if you weren’t appreciating the view.”

His eyes contract and narrow in a critical assessment. I swallow back anything else that’s smart-mouthed in nature. Dark orbs trail over my bare shoulder and down my back, resting on the curve of my ass that’s barely covered by the red thong and miniscule skirt. A bead of moisture escapes from between my thighs and I press them together to ease the throbbing ache that’s activated by the rasping of silk with each step I take. I’m wet and nervous, unsure how to handle what’s happening.

“I’m going to show you what I think of the view.” Declan grabs me again, dragging me toward his desk. Hard wood jabs my middle as he pushes me over the top and clears the paper contents with a sweep of his hand, letting everything fall to the floor in a cacophonic mess. His hips bump mine as he sits on the desk and pulls me over his knee. Butter-soft dress pants rub against sensitive skin. The muscles of his legs feel thick under my ribs and stomach, knocking the wind out of me.

His hand rests on the top round of my ass that curves into my lower back. I feel the air conditioning sweep over my exposed flesh as he flips up the ridiculous skirt I wear. His hand cracks down on skin and I squeal like a pig wriggling in slippery mud to get away—only I can’t because his grasp is too tight in the dents of my hips, bruising my tender skin.

“You’ve been a real pain in the ass, Sydney Meadows.” His hand cracks down again, making me grunt.

“Are you going to fuck me?” I ask, biting my lip.

He pauses in the moment.

“Good girls don’t know what a good fucking is,” he says, palming the hot skin that itches with sensations I don’t know how to describe.

I swallow. “S-so are you—going to?” I tense.

“I should make you count the strokes. I told you not to come back here and that I don’t care about your paltry little problems.” His short nails dig into my flesh, stabilizing me over his lap. His dick is a thick ridge pressing into me. He can’t deny he feels something.

“My dad’s life isn’t some little problem.” Twisting, I cry out, attempting to reason with him. Dad is my last connection to Mom. I can’t lose him. He’s all I have—except for an Aunt Shirley clear across the country in Anaheim.

“Well it sure as hell isn’t mine.” He slaps me repeatedly, changing the spot on my backside and igniting a fire on my skin, each one hurting more than the one before. Fucking me might be less painful, even if less desirous. The slaps echo inside the confines of the office, vibrating the energy in the room. I swear the picture frames swell and shake near to falling off the walls with the restrained force he uses. He finishes and his hand lingers, pushing my thighs apart over his lap, leaving me ungracefully hanging over him and scrambling to grip the edges of the desk.

I’m a numb jumble of frayed nerve endings resembling something close to a pack of exposed live wires blitzing and jumping with current. His hand scorches against the exposed skin of my innermost place, and my brain short circuits with impulsive desire to want more from Declan Natas’ Midas touch.

I shouldn’t want anything from this man. His touch should have destroyed me, but instead I’m questioning everything. I want anything he’ll give me, scraps included.

“Do you like that, pretty girl?” His voice is a low, cruel, silver-tongued whisper puffing out the hair covering my ear.

I wish my hair was tied back and not sticking to my neck but the bobby pins are scattered on the floor along with what’s left of my senses. His hands play me with more skill than my piano-playing fingers, lazily trailing a tune. I don’t know the song, but I crave to learn its words, tempo, and the impending crescendo.

His hand dips farther between the recesses of my legs, and like a dirty girl I edge my legs open wider. My nose is overwhelmed by the scents of musk, bitter alcohol, salt, and the man holding me. Declan chuckles and rubs the wet fabric covering my hot slit like he’s strumming a concert cello. Together we could make a scandalous two-person ensemble as I moan in a high violin wail and grunt like an ill-played cymbal when he tugs soaked silk against my clit, pulling it tight. I want more, so much more, and my voice cracks, afraid to ask for something I know nothing about.

“You like it, don’t you? My finger strumming your sloppy little cunt.” Crass words follow his blunt finger pressing against me, and I feel the edge of his nail scraping against flesh so sensitive I could burst at any moment.

I’m biting my lip but he demands an answer.

“You want it rough, don’t you?”

The likelihood of embarrassing myself with a grotesque display of emotion ranks high in the moment.

“Please,” I moan, hoping he will end my torment instead of leaving me writhing in his lap. Hot sweat beads on my brow and trickles down, landing in sad droplets to the wood floor below. A sick part of me wonders how many other women he’s taken like this in his office. I bet the janitor for this place has waxed a million droplets of sweat and cum into the shine of the wood floor. I squeeze my eyes shut to block it out.

“Oh and you ask so nicely.” He’s mocking me as his digit raises high only to sink lower, pressing deeper, leaving the silk scrap of underwear an abrasion on my pussy lips—separating them but preventing his invasion inside my quivering walls. I’m strung tight and I fidget in his grasp.

“Declan, please. I’ll do anything.” And I would, too, to feel the pressure pop and release, letting my body snap back like an overused rubber band to lay limp and sated. No touch of my own creation has ever left me feeling this wanton and heady. He is a master conductor of sexual tension and desire, and the bastard knows it.

His mouth finds my neck, tasting me in a proprietary kiss before he speaks softly, buzzing into my ear. “Do you know I can smell you?”

His lips pepper a light kiss on my cheek.

The musky heat fills my nose, drugging me. I heave a breath in, attempting to relax on the exhalation. It’s a mistake because the panties tear and Declan spanks me three more times in painful succession, making me cry before plunging his finger deep inside, pressing down on the front wall of sensitive tissue. I’m back to being the writhing pressure cooker speared open with nowhere to go as my wet walls squelch with untamed desire.

“Stop. It’s too much.” Not his finger, but the sensations that threaten to drown me or split me asunder—I can’t figure out which.