When he finally breaks the kiss, I'm gasping. Lips swollen. Body trembling.
He studies my face with dark satisfaction. "Still going to tell me you're not attracted to me?"
I can't answer. Can't form words past the arousal and shame flooding through me.
"That's what I thought." His hands go to my waist, and suddenly he's lifting me. Shoving me back onto his desk.
Papers scatter. His laptop slides to the side. And I'm sitting on the edge of his desk with my skirt riding up and his body between my thighs.
"Let me show you what happens to liars in my house." His voice is dark. Promising. "What happens to girls who spy on me and get caught."
His hand slides up my thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Giving me time to stop him.
I don't.
Can't.
Some sick part of me wants to know what happens next. Wants to see how far he'll go. Wants to feel something other than fear, and guilt, and the crushing weight of impossible choices.
His fingers reach the edge of my underwear, and he pauses. Eyes locked on mine. Asking a question without words.
Stop this. Push him away. This is insane.
But I don't move.
And that's answer enough.
He rips my underwear off in one brutal motion. The sound of fabric tearing echoes in the quiet study, and I gasp in fear. This could go wrong very quickly.
"These are in my way." He tosses the ruined fabric aside without looking at it. His hand slides between my thighs, andI feel his fingers brush against me. "And fuck, you're soaked, Valerie."
A scalding wave rolls through me, and I hate that he’s right. I'm wet. Embarrassingly wet. My body responding to violence and dominance and everything I should be running from.
"Please—" I don't even know what I'm begging for.
"Please what?" His fingers slide through my wetness, teasing but not entering. "Please stop? Please continue? Please make you come?"
"I don't—I don't know—"
"Yes, you do." His thumb finds my clit and presses—just enough pressure to make me gasp. "Your body knows exactly what it wants even if your mind won't admit it yet."
Then his fingers slide inside me.
Two at once. Rough. No gentleness. Just brutal invasion that makes me cry out and arch against him.
"That's it." His voice is dark satisfaction. "Let me hear you."
He doesn't give me time to adjust. Just starts moving his fingers with relentless efficiency, curling them inside me in a way that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
I should fight this. Should hate this. Should do anything except grip the edge of his desk and let him fuck me with his fingers while I fall apart.
But I can't.
Because it feels too good. Because three weeks of tension are unraveling. Because my body doesn't care that this is wrong—it only knows that it's finally getting what it's been craving.
His thumb circles my clit while his fingers work inside me, and the dual sensation is overwhelming. Building pressure low in my stomach. Heat spreading through my body like wildfire.
I'm close. So close. Just need a little more—