Page 39

LIA

O nce upon a time, I’d told Rhaim he couldn’t torture me into mental health—but as I was pressed naked against the skyscraper glass in my father’s building, I realized there was a good chance he could fuck it into me.

I dropped my hands and shimmied the bottom half of the worksuit down to my knees—and felt Rhaim’s dick ride between my legs a moment later, sawing between my thighs, without going into me.

He made a sound behind me like a growl. It melted another weighted piece of my soul, letting it fly free, and I tried to bow my head—but he wouldn’t let me.

“I don’t want anyone to see your face,” he whispered roughly in my ear.

“You made it sound like no one was looking?” I asked, more curious than annoyed.

“Yeah, but, what’s the point if they’re not?” he said, while grabbing my hips with one hand to tilt them.

I rose up on my toes and he slid in, all at once, all of the hard, hot, heat of him. I moaned, and he made a sound as if to agree.

“Lean forward. Carefully. And gimme your wrists. Back here,” he said, snapping his free hand behind me. I placed them between us, and was surprised when he moved them to line up side-by-side and then engulfed them with his hand, like a handcuff.

That…sent me.

I didn’t know where.

Just all of a sudden, I needed a forwarding address.

I was trapped again, yes, but for once in my life it was because I was choosing to be—and I heard him give a dark chuckle.

“Oh, little girl, we haven’t even started that journey,” he said, and then he thrust up, while holding me back, hair and wrists, making the skin of my breasts catch against the glass.

That…hurt. Some. But the rest of everything was good.

Especially the part where I wasn’t thinking.

Because at some point in time in the last thirty seconds I’d become incapable of thought—I felt all the stress of who I was, and where I was, and what I was supposed to do melting away, as his dick sawed it out of me, stroke by stroke.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have any meaning.

It was some fucking— literally —zen alternative where I didn’t need meaning anymore.

All I needed was to keep being used.

Just.

Like .

This.

“I’m—” I tried to warn Rhaim but it was like the words were very far away, and my orgasm was so much closer.

“I’m—I’m—” I shouted, and then I cried out, bucking against him as he forced me to stay in place, holding me back on him as my core tried to curl me.

I fought him through it, I couldn’t help it, and then finished with a silent scream.

He let go of my wrists first, and I planted my hands against the glass immediately, panting.

“Did that help?” he asked as he pulled out, still hard.

He hadn’t let go of my hair, so I knew he could feel me nodding.

“Good. Get on your knees. Hands on the glass.” I did as I was told, kneeling and bracing, and he followed.

“Maybe you come again, maybe you don’t, we’ll see,” he warned, and then pushed himself back inside.

I was tighter now from coming, and slipperier too—I made a rough sound as he met me, shoving my entire body forward.

“My turn,” he said, grinding himself against me while he was deep.

I could see him looking down at where we met in our reflection.

He was disheveled, still wearing a dress shirt, and his slacks were only partially down—I could hear his belt buckle chime every time he moved—there were probably friction burns on my breasts, and I already knew my pussy would be sore in the morning—and yet somehow he was healing me.

From the inside out.

With each stroke and thrust, it was like he was putting something back into me, something that’d been gutted out so very, very long ago.

I opened my thighs a little wider, lowering my hips incrementally, and he noticed.

“Yeah?” he asked, leaning forward, putting one of his hands over mine on the glass, just like how he had in the bathroom, and I nodded frantically, trying not to cry because I didn’t want to have to explain things and risk sounding silly.

I just wanted him to love me as much as I loved him.

“Okay, moth,” he whispered, and kept going.

I moaned, and tried to bow my head so I could curve my hips and make him hit a better spot—and to my surprise he let me, letting my hair flow out of his hand—so that he could grab around my waist, and that was even better—I braced against the glass to shove my hips back.

That made him make a sound, and he came closer up behind me, his strokes sharp and short, until I couldn’t fight against them and they pushed me forward, inch by inch, until I was practically crawling up the glass as he thudded me against it.

“Get your hand down there,” he commanded, and I raced to do it, wedging my arm in between me and the window, rubbing myself furiously, as the friction of his cock tugged my clit back and forth beneath me.

I started panting, and he was there, right behind me, spearing me up, and then dragging me down, working me against the glass, and I was going to scream. I gnashed my teeth once, and then opened my mouth wide, straining forward, only to feel his hand at my throat.

“Keep your face back,” he said.

“I need to fucking come ,” I begged. “Please!”

“You think I don’t know that?” he said, with a rough laugh—then let go of my hand on the window to pinch a nipple and then sink his hand between my legs to replace mine. “Turns out I need that too,” he said, setting his teeth on my neck for a second. “So come for me.”

I gasped and I shuddered and I rode him like he was a horse and ten transcendent seconds later I was howling. I only barely caught myself before I said his name—because we were in my father’s building—but he didn’t share my compunction.

“Lia,” he snarled, and thudded into me, pushing me forward and then keeping me pinned, trapped, as his hips bucked—and then he relaxed and fell back, pulling me onto the ground with him.

I splayed out onto his carpeting, a mess for the second time in the day, only now for infinitely better reasons, and I turned toward him, grabbing his chin to make him look at me. “You have no idea how much I love you.”

He circled me in his arms and pulled me close. “No, little girl, I think I know.”