Page 47 of Filthy Little Fix

"I was bored," I say. It's the truth.

He narrows his eyes. Then he approaches, and that's all it takes for me to get the good dose of adrenaline I've been looking for for days.

He holds my chin. He forces me to look him in the eyes, and his thumb slides over my bottom lip—his skin against my lips is reverent. I revere him.

"Tell me what you think I'm going to do to you."

He wants to hear it. He wants to hear it from my mouth that he has power over me, and damn, I would tell him every detail of every one of my fantasies if he wanted to.

"You're going to put me in my place," I say softly, and my heart is already racing, spreading oxytocin through all my nerves.

"And where is that?" he says, unyielding. I hold my breath to keep from moaning.

"Below you."

He pushes me back. My lower back hits the desk, and I can't help but groan—it would probably leave another mark, another purple stain. He comes closer. The same hand that was touching my mouth now grabs my neck, squeezing the sides, feeling my heart rate against his fingers. The world contracts into a thick fog. All I feel is his touch.

"Below me," he says, "is exactly where you belong."

His hand, with the same aggression as before, grabs my hair and pulls me into a kiss. It's an open-mouthed, messy, deep kiss. His tongue wraps around mine, and he devours my mouth, sliding his hands over my body, squeezing my waist, and pulling me against him.

His mouth glides to my jaw, where I feel the bruises throbbing. I shiver.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he growls, his voice hoarse and his mouth on my skin. His tone is more threatening than anything he has ever said to me. "Every fucking minute, I think about you and your mouth."

He goes down further. "And those sounds you make..." He nips at my neck, sliding his lips to where he was squeezing a second ago. "They drive me fucking crazy."

I'm used to—and always waiting for—being so desperate for him; having him push me to my limit and make me beg, but he's never kissed me like this. Never kissed my neck, never spreadmarks on it, never confessed that he thinks about me. Imagining it makes me throb. Imagining that he thinks about me when he's alone, about my mouth. The fantasy flashes in my head; his voice calling my name, imagining my mouth around his cock.

"Fuck, mister," I say. It's almost a whisper—I have no breath. Not with him touching me like this. "You can't say those things..."

His hands firm on my hips, and he lifts me, pressing himself against me to sit me on the edge of the desk. He fits himself between my legs, his body brushing against my erection. It throbs.

"I can say whatever the fuck I want, Nyx," he growls against my mouth before kissing me again, biting my lips.

His hands move down from my hips to my pants. He unbuttons them quickly, pulling them down. I lift my hips, allowing him to take them off.

Having him fully clothed between my naked legs is a sight I've fantasized about more than I'd like to admit.

He pushes me back, forcing me to lie on the desk, disorganizing a pile of contract papers. I don't care. I want this desk to be a mess.

He holds my thighs and spreads my legs even further. I can't contain my groan.

"You're a mess," he murmurs.

"I can't help it, mister. You turn me on."

He laughs, low and rough, and it makes me shiver.

"Yeah, Nyx. I turn you on. And I like seeing you fall apart for me."

His hand slides down my thigh, between my legs. I flinch. Fuck. It was always quick, hateful, with a need that bordered on disgust, and now he holds me like this.

"Fuck, mister, please..."

He lowers his hand to his pants, undoing the buckle. Yes. He pulls his cock out—hard and thick, hot and pulsing. He doesn't wait; he presses the tip before penetrating me slowly, filling me inch by inch. It hurts—he didn't prepare me, and I've never put anything inside me—and it makes me feel alive.

"Mister, you're big," I breathe.