Page 89 of Inheritance

He dragged the hem of my dress upward, fingers skimming my thighs, hooking under my thong and sliding them down.

“Turn around. Bend,” he ordered, voice low but sharp.

I turned, palms flat on the desk, the wood cool beneath my skin. He dragged the dress up over my hips, exposing me to him as sunlight bloomed through the window.

One hand spread across my lower back while the other stroked down, fingers parting me, testing how ready I was—finding me soaked.

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest. “All that from sucking me?”

I looked over my shoulder, met his gaze, and answered with my eyes as he guided the head of his cock through my just outside my pussy, teasing, gathering wetness.

I pushed back, greedy for more.

He aligned and pressed in, slow but unyielding, stretching me until I gasped. Inch by inch he filled me, until there was no more room and I let out a quick involuntary squeal.

“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back, deeper.

The desk shook. I braced harder, knuckles whitening. Again—out, then in, establishing a rhythm that forced my eyes to rollback. Each thrust landed harder, the slap of flesh drowned only by our ragged breaths and the low creak of wood.

His hand slid up my spine, fisting in my hair, arching my back so he could watch himself driving into me.

“So tight for me.” Thrust. “So wet.” Thrust. “You’re mine.” Thrust.

His words lit sparks everywhere under my skin. Pleasure coiled low, tightening with each push.

I moaned—wordless, raw—meeting every stroke.

His hand left my hair, slid around to where we joined, fingers circling my clit in tight, deliberate patterns. Sensation shot through me like sparks.

My elbows buckled; only his grip at my hips kept me from collapsing altogether.

His hand left my clit, only to grip my hip tighter, anchoring me to the desk as his thrusts deepened.

The desk creaked beneath me, my breath scattering with every motion.

Then he stilled. Pulled out with a suctioned pop.

I made a sound—half protest, half question—but he was already tugging me upright, turning me with ease.

His fingers found the back of my dress, unzipping in one clean motion. The fabric slid from my shoulders like it had been made for him to take off.

He let it fall. His eyes tracked the path as it pooled at my feet.

Then his hands were on my waist again, lifting—effortless, decisive—and setting me on the desk, this time facing him.

My thighs parted around his hips. My back met the cool surface, and I leaned into it, chest rising with the weight of anticipation.

He stood still for a moment, just looking down at me.

Then his fingers went to his shirt buttons—slow, sure, one by one. Each movement deliberate.

When he slid it off, the sleeves rustled softly. He let it fall behind him, bare skin catching the afternoon light that spilled through the window.

I drank him in. The tension in his shoulders. The marks I’d left earlier on his neck. The rigid line of control that still hadn’t snapped.

He stepped between my legs, cock still slick and hard, and I reached for him—but he caught my wrist. Pressed it to the desk above my head. Rough and firm.

He didn’t speak. Just held my gaze as he guided himself back inside me, slow at first.