LUCI (The Naughty Ones Book 2)

by Kristina Weaver

  It was so easy to be in love with someone like Peter. I’d been so afraid that our relationship was going to be complicated by the wedding, but it seemed as if everything was falling into place — that it was all meant to be.

  My desk phone chimed, and I looked at the display with some surprise. It was Peter, but he never called me, preferring to saunter over to my desk just to try and get an eyeful. Was this some new game he was playing? I felt a sexual thrill despite my unease, picturing Peter talking dirty to me, giving me explicit instructions while I was forced to keep a straight face for the benefit of all of my coworkers.

  “Yes?” I purred, so sure I knew what we were playing.

  “My office,” he said, his accent clipping the words even more than he was probably meaning to do. “Immediately.”

  I frowned. That wasn’t very sexy at all. “Is everything all right?”

  But he’d already hung up. There was nothing to do but to hang my receiver on the cradle and make my way over. One good sign as I approached — the window blinds were shuttered. Hopefully, that meant that he was ready and eager to continue our session from yesterday. My body ached for him, and I wondered if it was possible to have so much sex with a person that you got addicted to it. Surely not. Somebody would’ve warned me, wouldn’t they?

  I opened the door and smiled, but Peter barely looked up from the spread of papers across his desk.

  “I need copies of all of these,” he said, sweeping his hand over the papers. “Collated and stapled, too.”

  “Glad to be of service,” I said cheekily. “Shall I gather those up for you as well, or are you capable of doing that yourself?”

  “I’m capable of doing all of this myself,” he said. “You’re supposed to be here to make my life a little easier.”

  I was stung by his tone — flat, almost irritable. But then I smiled again. Maybe there was something I could do to turn this day around for him. He was obviously having a miserable one.

  “I thought I was here to make life a little…harder for you,” I said suggestively, raising an eyebrow as I took the paper he was looking at by the corner and dropping it on the floor in an extravagant gesture. “Oops. Look what I’ve done.”

  Peter’s blue eyes were positively icy. “Pick that up immediately.”

  “Right away,” I agreed, turning around and bending down slowly, exaggerating my movements, sticking my rear out much more than necessary, before retrieving the sheet of paper. “Here you are.”

  His eyes had narrowed to slits. “I seem to have noticed something about your appearance today that bothers me greatly,” he said, his voice tight.

  “Hot and bothered?” I smiled at him.

  “You’re wearing panties.” His tone was both accusatory and petulant, and it made me laugh.

  “That’s right.”

  “I expressly told you not to while you were in this office.”

  I leaned forward, over the rest of the pages I was supposed to be copying. “What are you going to do about it?”

  That was all the encouragement he apparently needed. He grabbed me, scattering the various papers and blueprints and pens on his desk, and bent me over, my torso flat against the surface of his work station, my rump nearly at the level of his face. He worked the hem of my dress up my thighs and over my hips and stopped short.

  I grinned and nearly laughed again, imagining just what his view was back there. I thought the crotch-less panties were pretty pornographic, myself, but I was certain Peter would get a laugh out of them.

  “Do you like them?” I asked, trying to look over my shoulder at him to gauge his reaction. “I thought of you when I bought them.”

  “These still qualify as panties,” he informed me after a beat, his voice rough with arousal.

  “Then I am prepared to accept my punishment,” I said, grabbing the edge of the desk to steady myself, reminding myself that I was the one who’d instigated this, that I wanted to explore this darker side of my sexuality because I knew it would please Peter. He’d shown me just how intoxicating pain and pleasure could be. I was ready for more.

  The ruler hit with a flat thwack, making me rock forward in discomfort as it slapped my bare rear. Before I could recover from that initial blow, another followed it, the metal whistling through the air before making contact. I winced and clutched the desk tighter, starting to regret provoking Peter like this. He was obviously in need of a release he wasn’t finding in me. Another thwack, and another, and I was nearly biting through my lip from the pain, the promise of pleasure long forgotten. I could only imagine the stripes that marred my flesh back there, cringing at the prospect of sitting on it for the rest of the workday, until, without warning, Peter bent forward and lapped at my pussy from behind, forcing my legs farther apart to accommodate his explorations.

  I gasped at the reprieve, at the suddenness of his tongue against me, flicking against my clit before plunging into my entrance, making love to my body with that surprisingly mobile muscle until I was dripping wet and quivering over the surface of the desk.

  He scissored his fingers into me, even though he should’ve known by now that I was ready for him — more than ready, and entered me doggy style, pressing my face on the cool wood of his desk, pumping mercilessly into me, not even grunting along with the thrusts. He had perfect control of himself even in the hardest push of his hips, the trousers he hadn't even bothered to let drop to his ankles chafing my sore butt.

  Peter pulled out of me suddenly, and there was a hot splash of cream on my bare rear. He let out a breath he might’ve been holding the entire time.

  “Don’t move,” he commanded, his voice low, as if he didn’t trust it. I tried to keep from pressing my crotch against his desk. I hadn’t come yet, but I was close. I bit my lip thinking about all the various manners in which Peter could bring me to completion, looking forward to a little release after all the tension that had been building up between us since yesterday.

  I jumped at the next touch — a tissue, deployed across my aching backside with a clinical air, to catch the rapidly cooling evidence of Peter’s climax.

  “There,” he said, tossing the crumpled tissue in the trashcan. “Now. The copies.”

  I pushed myself up off the desk and tugged my skirt back down, not sure why my face was burning in shame. It was as if he’d embarrassed me on purpose, but I thought I knew him better than that. I was more upset that he’d come without me, without regard for my pleasure minus the abbreviated oral session that I was beginning to think was more about his comfort than mine. I refused to make eye contact with him as I scooped up an armful of papers I wasn’t even sure were the ones he wanted copied and charged out of his office, my rear still stinging from his dubious affections.

  Sex wasn’t supposed to be about shaming the other partner. I’d asked to be punished, sure, but there was supposed to be a mutual benefit from it. Peter and I were supposed to explore our kinks together, and we were both supposed to derive pleasure from them. Wasn’t that the way it worked? I felt as if I’d done something wrong, as if I’d caused a mess and he’d rubbed my nose in it. Was this some element of a new game we were playing that I didn’t know the rules to? Would he even answer me if I asked him?

  There was something bothering me about the way he was acting, but I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t some fetish he was putting out on display for me. I’d admitted that it was hot to be dominated in his office. Had Peter just taken it a little too far, a little past my comfort zone? Was it my fault that I hadn’t been open to the new experience? I’d enjoyed parts of it, but certainly not as much as Peter had enjoyed himself.

  I returned both the master copy and the copies of the documents he’d requested, collated and stapled, to his office, but Peter wasn’t there. I didn’t know where he was. I checked his schedule — a document I kept saved on my computer’s desktop — but it didn’t give me any insight as to his whereabouts. He didn’t have a meeting scheduled until after lunch. Had he decided to take a lo
ng break? Why had he vanished without at least debriefing me on, if not our hookup, something actually related to work?

  I tried to focus on the task at hand, but it was becoming more and more apparent to me that Peter and I had a problem — one that would only continue to grow if it wasn’t addressed. Something was the matter, but I couldn’t figure it out, no matter how hard I wracked my brain.

  I went over all of our conversations that I could remember, trying to see if I’d slighted him in any way, but I drew blanks for every effort. Could it be that he’d been genuinely offended by my attempt to tease him with the crotch-less panties? I resolved to follow his rules to the T tomorrow.

  At the end of the day, I stopped by his office to see if he wanted to grab some dinner, but he’d already left. No messages for me.

  All I could do was creep back to the penthouse, nibble on something I found in the refrigerator, and see what I could do better the next day.

  I risked scandal the next day, preparing myself for work slowly, pulling one of my nicest dresses out of the closet. I hadn't even worn this one yet — there hadn’t been an occasion to — and it was a little too sexy for the workplace, a slit working its way up the thigh. But I was at a loss. I was floundering, trying to wave to get Peter’s attention, but he hadn't thrown me a bone. I was working in the only medium I knew might catch his eye, one of lipsticks and bobby pins and pushup bras, sweeps of mascara and a stamp of a curler to make my eyes pop.

  When I arrived at work that morning, very carefully ten minutes early, I knew that I looked more ready to go out for dinner and a show than to sit and be somebody’s secretary all day, but there it was. I was trying my best. I passed by his office all morning, back and forth, whenever the door was open, like a fool, waiting for him to glance up and invite me in, not daring to step over the threshold without an invitation in case that would somehow be another affront to him. He ignored me through the better part of the work day, even though I was almost sure he wasn’t working on anything particularly pressing, and I absorbed the blow as best I could.

  What else was there to do? What else could I have done when I was neck deep in something I didn’t understand?

  It wasn’t until that afternoon that he beckoned me into his office, his face unreadable.

  “Close the door,” he nearly barked. I obeyed meekly, my compliance at odds with my empowered appearance.

  “This is not appropriate dress for the workplace,” he said. “What was going through your mind when you dressed yourself like this in the morning? Are all your other outfits dirty? Do you need another shopping trip? Are you aware that you’re to use the laundering service provided by the hotel?”

  I wasn’t aware of that last point, but it was useful to know. The rest of his words stung me.

  “I thought you might like this outfit,” I said, walking back and forth in front of him as if I were on the world’s shortest catwalk, making sure he noticed the slit in the dress, how high it went up, the curve of my neck left exposed by my high bun and the cut of the neckline.

  “I would appreciate the aesthetics of this outfit in a different setting — not the office.”

  I swallowed my wounded ego and slowly dragged my eyes up his body. “Would you like me to take it off?”

  Before he could say anything one way or the other, I unzipped the dress in one motion and let it fall off of me, happy the blinds were kept perpetually down during whatever new phase he was going through, happier still when his eyes widened at the knowledge I was wearing a very nice bra and nothing else beneath the dress.

  He snatched me over to his chair without getting up and pulled me into his lap, undoing his fly in the process, his thick cock springing from its confines. I had no warning but that as Peter positioned me over it, my legs straddling the arms of the office chair, and impaled me, the chair groaning with effort.

  I winced at the friction — he hadn’t taken any time to prepare me, and I hadn’t come in here all lubed up and ready for action — but my body quickly adapted, slicking the way as he thrust upward, widening to accommodate his girth.

  I tried to get him to look at me, to make eye contact with me, to reveal what he was feeling and why he was feeling it, but he had his face buried between my breasts, sucking the fragile skin on either of them until it bruised.

  Then, he was suddenly and brutally done, holding me still as he strained against me, filling me and leaving me empty at the same time, shoving me up and off of him even as his own essence ran down the inside of my thighs.

  “Get dressed,” he muttered at me without so much as looking at me. “Take better pride in your appearance.”

  It was all I could do to pull on my dress and zip it up without bursting into tears. I fled to the washroom, locking the door behind me, and stared blindly into my reflection as I cleaned Peter’s stickiness from my legs.

  Something was really, really wrong. If this was a game, I didn’t want to play it anymore. Work was feeling more like a battle zone than anything. I’d shown up these past two days not knowing who the bad guy was. If I’d done something wrong, I wished Peter could’ve let me know like a normal human being instead of humiliating me sexually. This was a power struggle. I could recognize that even if I couldn’t understand the reasoning behind it. I’d somehow done something to make him feel like he’d lost a kind of control. But he obviously wasn’t interested in talking about it like a regular person.

  What could I have done to make him react like this? What had happened?

  I didn’t have to peer into his office once I left the washroom to discern whether he’d left for the day. I knew he was gone. There was no way he could’ve been in the same building as me after what he’d done, finding his own pleasure in me without consideration for how I felt. Where was the tender man who’d washed my feet after I’d marched across block after city block, frightened and angry that he was using me for sex?

  That same man really was using me for sex, now. My fears had been true after all. I was just a hole in which he could relieve whatever bad feelings had built up. A receptacle. Something he could discard emotionally after sating himself physically.

  The next morning, I didn’t even want to come in to work. Perhaps that was how I should’ve known the honeymoon was over. Peter had gotten tired of me and was possibly trying to push me away. Perhaps I should just go without a fight, slinking away with my tail between my legs, eager for anonymity and oblivion. It wouldn’t be so bad to go back and live with my mother, would it? She had Frank to distract her, now, and she’d told me that the most important thing was my happiness. I wasn’t anywhere near happy right now. I was sad, afraid, confused, and more than a little bit perturbed that I hadn’t yet been able to decipher the source of Peter’s issues with me. If I had done something to upset him, it was so slight that I couldn’t divine what it could’ve possibly been. Surely nothing that would’ve rocked his world so thoroughly.

  I pulled on a plain business suit, one with sleek trousers, and did my makeup modestly, my hair pulled back from my face and secured at the nape of my neck. I looked very professional, but in a moment, my face crumpled. The boundary had been crossed, the one we’d been so careful to define and avoid. I was genuinely worried about my physical appearance and how it related to my work performance. Peter had promised me this wouldn’t happen, but here I was, sweating bullets in front of my reflection, wondering what fault he was going to find with me today. He was the one who’d crossed the line.

  I arrived at work exactly on time and was set to march into his office and tell him exactly which hell he could go to when I was roughly pulled into the washroom. It was so sudden I couldn’t even make a noise of surprise, not even when I realized it was Peter who’d yanked me in here.

  He looked at me like he was a man dying of thirst, drinking in the sight of me, and he pushed me over the countertop, slipped my trousers down over my hips, and entered me from behind. It was smoother than yesterday’s frantic coupling, and my body adjusted more qu
ickly, but it was still impersonal. There was a barrier down between us that I didn’t understand, and it made me angry. I scowled at his reflection in the mirror I faced, and he glared right back, thrusting into me almost hatefully.

  It would’ve been so easy to end it all right then and there, to tell Peter to go to hell, to walk out of the job and quit, to pack up what little I wanted to take from the penthouse and leave New York City forever.

  Except I loved the way his cock felt inside of me. I loved the slow build of pleasure, the way that I felt good no matter how angry I was at him, the way that even this was hot, both of us mad at each other and only one of us knowing why.

  I gasped a helpless orgasm and fumbled for something to hang on to, activating several sinks at once as I flailed around. I was only dimly aware of Peter pulling out of me and coolly watching me come apart, shaking against the cold metal of the sinks.

  Before I was fully recovered, he was zipping his still-hard erection back into his pants and walking away.

  It was no worse, I figured, as I pulled my trousers back up over my legs and fastened them with trembling fingers, that he hadn’t finished after not finishing me off for two days. But it was a different kind of worse, another kind of power play. Yesterday and the day before, he’d taken his pleasure in me thoughtlessly. Today, he’d deliberately made me come with no intention of coming himself, making me fear that he thought so little of me that he’d rather not feel that final pleasure.

  It was the very definition of a mind fuck. I had no idea what he was thinking, what he was playing at. I could only tuck a few strands of hair back into their pins and limp off to sit back down at my desk, my knees weak.