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His fingers moved inside her in a slow steady rhythm, and Fey barely heard him above the noises she was making.

“What?” she asked, breathlessly.

His fingers dug into her wrists, and between her legs he pushed a third finger inside her, stretching her. She gasped at the sensation.

“Beg me,” he repeated.

He was fucking her hard with his fingers. Her body was wet enough to allow it, responding to his touches in a way she’d never responded to anyone before.

“Come on, little Witchling.” His hand left her wrists, grabbing a fistful of her hair and wrenching her head back against the wood, forcing her body to arch. “Beg me to fuck you.”

His fingers moved faster, harder inside her, and already Fey felt herself building to another release.

She wanted to tell him to fuck off. Want to tell him to get off of her and go fuck himself.

But that’s not what came out of her mouth. His hand tangled in her hair, his fingers working her closer and closer to orgasm, and his fangs scraping against her neck, the word that came out of her mouth was “Please.”

“Please what?” his voice was teasing, but his fingers fucked her even harder, almost painfully hard.

“Fuck me, Alastair,” Fey panted. “Please. Please fuck me.”

He groaned in relief. His fingers slipped out of her, and he brought them to her lips.

“Open,” he ordered, eyes flashing. Without protest, Fey opened her mouth and let him slip two fingers inside her, sucking her juices from his fingers.

He smiled as she closed her mouth around his fingers, and she felt him shift between her legs, felt his cock nudge her entrance.

“Good girl,” he whispered. And he pushed himself inside her.

Three fingers had stretched her, but this? This was enough to break her apart. Fey screamed as he entered her, inch by inch, her hands clawing at his back. It hurt, Goddess knew it hurt, but it was like nothing she’d felt before.

He swore against her skin, and she wondered if he felt the same.

“Fuck,” he snarled. She bit the space between his shoulder and his neck to stop from screaming again. “Witchling, you’re so fucking tight.”

When the last inch of his cock buried inside her, he paused for a second, letting her adjust to the sensation of him filling her. Then, his face hovering above hers, their eyes locked, he started to move.

This is what sex should be, Fey thought as he moved inside her. Her body was on fire, every nerve firing. Already she was cresting to another peak.

The desk creaked underneath them as he fucked her. Alastair’s hand gripped her thigh tight enough to hurt, holding her in place, and his other hand found her neck and squeezed.

“I want to make you hurt, Fey,” he said. His hand tightened around her throat and his cock was agonizingly hard inside her. “I want you covered in marks from me. And when you come back for more, I want to taste every mark I left on you.”

He was moving faster, pounding into her. The desk moved with each thrust. Fey couldn’t think, couldn’t catch her breath. Her body was coming apart, and she wanted this, wanted him to hurt her.

“I want you to remember this,” he groaned against her skin. “I want you to remember every place I touched you.”

She tried to talk, tried to say his name, but he moved his hand to her mouth, covering her words.

“Come for me again, Witchling,” he commanded.

And she did.

Fey nearly blacked out from the force of it, and if his hand hadn’t covered her mouth she might have screamed loud enough to be heard in the club, music be damned. He fucked her through it, moving his hips in slow sensual strokes and whispering filthy things in her ears.

As she came down from her peak, his rhythm became faster, more erratic, and when she whispered his name against the hand that held her, he groaned his release, spilling himself inside her before collapsing.

They lay there together, entwined on his desk, breathless and sweaty. Might have stayed there all night if the desk hadn’t creaked again, under the weight of them both. Creaked, and shifted.