“Greer,” Ash says, his hands sliding up to my hips and holding me tight, “I have to know you meant what you said. It’s been ten years since you wrote me that email, and while I’ve spent those ten years wishing to God that you were mine, I know things might have changed for you.”
Everything has changed. So much has changed. And yet nothing at all, because here I am just as breathless and squirmy as I was kissing him when I was sixteen. As infatuated and obsessed as when I wrote those emails.
“I want to know if I can be the man to hold you by the neck,” he says. “I need to know how much you’ll let me do to you, how far you’ll let me go, because you are the only woman who’s ever said those words to me. The only woman who’s wanted that from me.”
His fingers dig into my hips, and I nod, vigorously, desperately. “Yes,” I plead. “Yes, please.”
A certain tension leaves his shoulders, and the smile he gives me is luminous. “I’ve waited so long for this. Wanted this so hard, so painfully, and now…” He takes a breath, moving his hands down so that his palms rest on the top of my legs and his thumbs brush against the crease of my thighs. “Now you are here, and you are actually telling me you want to be mine.”
“I’ve wanted to be yours since I was old enough to want it,” I tell him. I can feel the warmth from his thumbs, the faintest movement of them as they gently rub closer and closer to my cunt, and it makes me ache so fiercely I can’t handle it. I try to subtly move my hips so that I get the touch where I need it, but he merely presses his palms against my thighs to stop me.
“What do you want?” I ask him in a whisper. “Let me give it to you.”
The words are like water to a parched man, and he presses his eyes closed for a moment. Then he opens them. “Don’t move,” he orders, pressing my legs wider apart. I’m so exposed to him, and his thumbs are so very, very close to the place where I throb and need.
“Yes, Sir,” I murmur.
And then the first press of his touch. His thumbs brush against my folds, up and down, up and down, until I’m fighting the urge to squirm, and then he spreads my pussy open. He can see every fold, curve and slick line of me, and the way he’s looking at my cunt, as if it’s something for sale, a thing for his pleasure and his possession, it makes it impossible to stay still now. I wriggle a little on the desk.
Thwack!
A sharp slap on the inside of my thigh.
I’m surprised by the hot flash of pain, and even more surprised at the way my pussy tightens at it, the way goose bumps pepper my flesh and the way my nipples harden. I can’t stop the whimper that leaves my mouth.
“I’m the first man to look at your pussy this way, aren’t I? The first to spread you open and just look.”
“Yes, Sir,” I confirm, heat flushing in my stomach as I remember Embry that night. There had been no looking then, no deliberate teasing. Just hands and mouths and need. There’s something that’s so inherently, deeply right about the way Ash takes his time and exerts his control. Embry treated me like a treasure he couldn’t stop himself from plundering. Ash is treating me like a jewel to be polished and then shattered and then polished again. Like I’m all the more beautiful for the ways he’d like to wreck me.
“I want you to show me what you did when you wrote to me,” he says. “I want to see what it looks like when you fuck yourself.”
I let out a ragged breath. “Right now?”
“Yes. Right now.”
All at once, my bravery leaves me. “I’m just… I’ve never done that in front of anyone. I’m worried I’ll look stupid.”
“For ten years, I’ve been dreaming about you,” Ash reassures me, his thumbs back to rubbing their sweetly teasing rubs. “Just having you here, on my desk and spread open for my pleasure, is more than I ever hoped to have. There’s no earthly way you can disappoint me.”
But, sensing my hesitation, he wraps his strong hand around my own and gives it a squeeze. “I’ll help you get started,” he informs me, guiding my hand to my waiting pussy. I’m bare, and the outer skin there is so soft, so deliciously soft. “Don’t think of it like anything other than what it is. I’m making you do this. You don’t have a choice. It doesn’t matter that it feels strange or embarrassing, because the only things you have to worry about are listening and remembering your safe word. Say yes, Sir if you understand.”
His words relax me, soothe me. There’s no way in hell I want this to stop, and he’s right—the minute I relinquish all control and surrender my body to his wants and commands, the fear of embarrassment slips away. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl. Now show me what you did in that computer chair all those years ago. I want to see you come.”
I do as he says, letting my eyes fall shut as he moves my hand so that my fingers graze the wet folds and then move up higher to my swollen clit. The moment my fingers touch it, I nearly jolt off the table. I’m starved for this, needy, because even though I get myself off nearly every night, having Ash here changes it fundamentally. It’s no longer me and my blurry memories merging with my darkest fantasies, it’s me and Ash and Ash’s hands moving back down to grip my hips and Ash’s pulse thudding above his collar and Ash’s silver tie bar glinting in the dim light of the White House living room. It’s both of us together, and it feels just as intimate as sex, even though we are both fully clothed, even though the hand slowly rubbing my clit is my own.
It only takes a minute for me to find my rhythm, to find that perfect pace and pressure to send my body slowly spiraling upwards. I bite my lip to muffle the tiny moans coming from deep in my throat, but I can’t stop the rocking of my hips as my body wakes up and begins demanding more. I spread my thighs wider, Ash’s pleased hiss rocketing through me like a meteoroid, and I severely underestimated how much I needed this because I’m so close, so impossibly close, and it’s only been a couple of minutes.
“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?” Ash asks in a low voice.
I nod, panting. I’m wet everywhere, my body hot, my thighs tight, my clit feeling firm and puffy all at once. My other hand, still pulling my panties aside so I can work myself for Ash, begins to cramp, and as if Ash can tell, he hooks the fabric with his thumb, freeing my hand from its task. I place that hand behind me so I can tilt my head up and lean back farther, relishing the feeling of Ash’s hands on me, his hungry eyes on my pussy, and that thought alone is enough to push me right to the cliff’s edge.
“Tell me when,” he orders. “I want to know when.”
“Now,” I manage. “Right now.”
Without hesitation, he plunges two of his fingers inside me. The rough intrusion sends my body convulsing, the orgasm suddenly infinitely more intense for those large, unfamiliar fingers inside me, and I clamp down on them, shuddering out my release.
“Look at me,” he tells me, and I do, meeting his eyes as my climax continues to pull at my stomach and thighs. As I continue to squirm down onto his hand and ride out my first non-solo release in years.
“Oh, that’s good,” he murmurs, glancing down to where I’m still trying to fuck his fingers. “That’s so good. That’s exactly what I need.”
He says it almost like feeling my pussy come around his fingers was some sort of audition and that I passed with flying colors, and the thought prolongs the shuddering contractions until finally several seconds—or hours—later, I’m left loose and tingling on the desk. And then I give a little laugh—incredulous, exhilarated.
I can’t believe I just did that.
I can’t believe it at all.
“Did that feel good?” Ash asks, fingers inside me still.
“Yes,” I breathe.
The fingers twist cruelly, pain flaring up and bringing with it a wave of deep, itchy desire. “Don’t be ungrateful,” the President chides. “What do you say?”
It’s so hard to think with his fingers inside me and pleasure still leaking through my limbs. “Yes, Sir?”
Another twist and I have to figh
t the urge to start fucking his fingers again. “Try again.”
Twist go the fingers, moan goes Greer.
“What. Do. You. Say.” Twist twist twist. “When. I’ve. Made. You. Feel. Good.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I gasp, not fighting myself any more and rocking into his thrusts.
A small smile like a comma at the corner of his mouth. “Good girl.” He presses his thumb to my clit and starts working it, building me up to a second orgasm so fast that I barely have time to register that it’s about to crest, and then it’s on me, and I’m shivering apart into bliss, contracting around the President’s hand, and gasping thank you thank you thank you as his eyes blaze with heat.
With gratitude.
“No, thank you, angel,” he murmurs, eyes on my face, fingers still gently working. “Thank you so much more than you can ever know.”
10
The Present
Ash’s fingers probe me once or twice more, pressing against my g-spot and testing my responsiveness, and then he slides them out, using my dress to dry his hand. The gesture is at once degrading and unbelievably sexy, and before I can again plunge into a who am I mental soliloquy, he says, “Snap your fingers instead of saying my name if you need to.”
I blink at him, confused, and then all of a sudden his large hand is fisted in the hair at the back of my neck, literally dragging me off the desk and to my knees. I tumble past his legs, his hand in my hair preventing me from using my hands to balance myself, and I land hard on the carpet, my dress catching between my body and Ash’s legs and baring my ass.
Ash’s hand is already on his belt buckle, deft and sure, and then his pants are open and I catch a glimpse of him. Male and hard and thick, and so much more beautiful than I ever could have imagined—all smooth ridges and a wide flared tip, every part of him flushed a dusky red. It’s hard for me, throbbing for me, and like a greedy girl, I reach for it with both hands.
A sharp tug of my hair. “Just your mouth,” Ash says.
I have next to no practice doing this, but I remember Ash’s comforting words from earlier and put that out of my mind. He wants me to try, I want to try, that’s all that matters. And so I lean forward and run the flat of my tongue up the underside of his cock, feeling every curve and swell of his shaft, relishing the shaky breath I hear him take above me. I repeat the action, faster this time, and start flickering my tongue experimentally around his tip, finding all the spots that make him pull my hair harder, the places that make his stomach tighten and his breath catch. Without my hands, it’s hard to apply the right kind of pressure, and so I lean forward even more, pinning his cock against his muscled stomach, which is still mostly covered by his expensive white button-down. There’s the scratch of Italian cotton on my cheek and the glide of his silk tie, a contrast to the heat of his skin, and then his hand is at his root and his other hand yanking at my hair, and my mouth is forced down onto his dick.
His crown is so wide, and I choke as he holds my head down onto him. The minute he hits the back of my throat—still far from all the way in—he yanks my head up and I gasp for breath, the stinging in my eyes manifesting into tears that smudge my mascara. My heart is racing, my blood flooded with adrenaline, and I realize I’m squirming the tiniest bit, my pussy already demanding more. I’m aroused and exhilarated and ashamed all at once.
Ash doesn’t speak, doesn’t loosen his hold on my hair or move the hand currently controlling his erection, and I realize he’s waiting. He gave me a small taste of what this would be like, and he’s waiting to see if I’ll snap my fingers or say his name to stop it. But I do neither.
I lick my lips instead.
He smiles then, a quick smile that doesn’t seem like it’s necessarily for me. Like he’s smiling at himself, smiling in satisfaction. Like he knows he made the right choice.
His cock is forced past my lips again, but this time I’m ready for it, opening my lips and taking a deep breath through my nose.
“Relax your tongue,” he murmurs from above me, and then lets out an, “Ahhhh, yes, like that,” when I comply. He moves a little slower than the first time, pulling me off and back onto his erection with a steady but not unkind pace, going a little deeper each time, until there’s finally the moment he pushes deep into my throat. My body rebels, my throat convulsing and threatening to gag, but then I realize the hand in my hair is caressing my scalp and that he’s crooning something to me. I can’t hear what he’s actually saying over the panic in my mind and the blood in my ears, but just hearing his voice grounds me. I breathe through my nose, more tears leaking over the edge of my lower lids, and reflexively swallow against the urge to gag.
“Holy shit,” Ash swears as I swallow around him, his hips bucking up into me. “Fuck.”
I do it again, with much the same response, the swearing and the jerky thrust into the tight vise of my throat, and at the same time I feel a rush of triumph, I also see my mascara-stained tears begin to drip onto his white shirt. He must see them too, because he gives a groan—half regret, half sheer cruel desire. I can feel his reluctance as he lifts my head and his dick leaves my mouth, but all I feel is a rush of overwhelming gratitude and also a kind of indescribable pride that I made him react that way.
I suck in several desperate breaths while he stares down at my face and gently wipes at the black tears on my cheeks with his thumb. “More,” he says, “I need more,” and then he’s shoving up inside me again, this time without mercy. I don’t snap my fingers, I don’t struggle—because God help me, I love this too much—but I can’t help the way my fingers claw at his thighs and my bare feet kick at the carpet as I let him fuck my throat. It’s invasive and brutal and fucking intoxicating. I’m the one being used, but in the dirty, airless heat of it all, he’s the one weakened and at the mercy of my mouth. He’s the one unraveling, thrusting and swearing and sweating, the one who’s more beast than human, and all because of something I’m doing. And doing well.
“Need to come,” he mutters raggedly. “I’m going to come.”
I get a quick break for air and then I’m back down, and I feel both of his hands on my head, pushing me down as far as I’ll go, to the point where my nose is buried against the clean, shortly trimmed hair at the base of his cock. Now that I know the swallowing trick, I do it repeatedly, driving him into a frenzy, and soon his forearms are clamped on my head and his body curled over mine, holding me fast as he pumps several hard, short thrusts into my throat. The silk tie rasps against my cheek, and my hands are desperate and everywhere, pulling at his pants, his belt, the expensive leather upholstery of his chair.
He finally erupts with a breathy grunt that makes my toes curl. I’ll be hearing that grunt in my dreams, in my fantasies, how helpless and yet strong it was, how very, very male. The sound of it lodges in my gut, and when the hot warmth of his climax finally hits my throat, I know I’m a lost cause. Nothing—not literature, not teaching, not traveling, or looking out over Manhattan at night—nothing compares to this. Having the powerful body of a powerful man pressed against me, owning me and taking pleasure from me. Having his most intimate, unguarded self unveiled, and only to me.
Because this night, this moment? I could be the only woman in the world, the only mouth and the only body, and that isn’t love, exactly, but it feels like it, and maybe that’s what counts in the end.
He lifts my head off his cock and says simply, “Lick me clean,” which I do. Thoroughly. So thoroughly that he starts to get hard again and pushes me off.
“Enough,” he says sternly, but when I look up, his eyes are sparkling with amusement. “You’re too good.”
Despite my raw throat, despite the wet tears on my cheeks, his words make me want to purr and stretch like a kitten. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so close to another person, so admired and, yes, despite the brutal face-fucking, respected. I’ve never been this happy and content, save for that handful of moments under Embry’s body all those years ago. I rub my face against Ash’s knee, like
a cat indeed, and he indulges me, stroking my hair and praising me for how good I made him feel.
After a few minutes of this, he straightens up, tucking himself back into his pants. “Stay like that, on your knees, and put your hands behind your back.”
I do as he says, watching him stand up and walk into his bedroom again, thinking there will be more to the night. My cunt rejoices, because I am so incredibly worked up after making Ash come, but when he comes out of the bedroom, he’s not holding any kinky sexy toys or condoms. He holds only a soft-looking washcloth and a hairbrush.
He sits back down in his chair and tilts my chin up, cleaning my face slowly and gently, wiping away every last black mascara trail and cooling what I know must be flushed cheeks. Then he tells me to turn around, still kneeling, and I feel him begin to pluck the hairpins out of my ruined chignon, one by one.
“Your hair,” he says in a low voice. I hear the pins hitting the desk one at a time, clink clink clink, as if he kept them all in his fist and then dropped them onto the desk in a steady rain. “There’s no end to the things I’ve thought about doing with your hair. It was the first thing I noticed about you that night, you kneeling among all that glittering glass, your hair like sunshine. Like white gold.” I can practically hear him shake his head. “I suppose I’ll never know if it was your hair or seeing you on your knees that captivated me at first. I’ll also never know if it was you noticing my sleeplessness or watching you bleed for someone you loved that made you unforgettable to me.”
His words are rolling through my veins, a spell of fire and heat.
“But that hair. I used to think about it incessantly, what it would look like wrapped around my fist as I fucked you from behind. How it would feel wrapped around my cock, like so much loose silk. There were times when it was all I could think about, what your hair would smell like and what it would feel like against my lips…” I feel his lips against my hair now, dropping kisses onto the crown of my head.
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