by Paula Cox
Rust pushes off the wall, swaggers to the desk, and takes the seat opposite me. He rests his elbows on the armrests and lets his forearms and hands hang down, like some massive powerful animal ready to jump across the desk at any moment; I search his eyes for lust, and I’m sure there’s something there, an ember in the deep night of his gaze. A ghostly hand trails up my back, tickling me, and I have to repress a shiver lest he see the effect he’s having. “Shocked?” He lets out a short laugh. “What did you think I was, sweetheart? Some kind of animal?”
Is this guy a mind reader or what? Yes, I want to say, that is exactly what I thought you were. At least, that is what I tricked myself into believing you were. But now I can no longer keep up that fiction—and I am lost without it.
“No,” I say. “I just didn’t expect you to care.”
“Care? Who said I cared?”
“You did—your behavior did.”
“You a shrink now?”
“No, but I spend a lot of time around people and I think I have a pretty good handle on how they’re feeling at any particular time; I think it’s vital to my job.”
Rust lets out another laugh, his eyes never leaving me. “That sounds like the sort of answer you’d give in a court case, sweetheart. Defensive. Next you’re gonna tell me you’re pleadin’ the fifth.”
Tell him to leave, tell him you have more work, tell him you haven’t got time to chat.
“Rust, you saved me from those unpatched bikers, which is a nice thing to do. Obviously. But then you acted like you couldn’t care less, and now here you are, being nice and caring for Joseph, and now acting like you couldn’t care less again. Which is it? Are you the uncaring asshole or the sensitive biker?”
Rust shrugs. “You of all people should know it’s never that simple.” Rust glances at the picture of a waterfall, which is to my left, and then stands up and goes to it. The desk is no longer between us now, not properly, only the edge of it. Ludicrously, I think about dragging my chair around to the other side. This is insane …I should just ask him to leave. But I don’t. Instead, I watch, enraptured, as he runs his callused biker’s finger down the canvas’s falling water. “Is this supposed to make a man peaceful, then?” he comments.
“Or a woman, or a kid. Yes.”
For the next ten or so seconds, I just watch as this six-three leather-wearing hulk of a man trails his finger along the contours of the canvas, and then he turns to me, staring down at me with eyes blacker than the acts which have haunted my dreams this past week. I remember thinking earlier that I wish I was wearing something else, but Rust clearly doesn’t mind. His eyes roam to my shirt, and then down to my dress and to my legs. I’m wearing tights, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
I wriggle under his gaze. He meets my eyes, and smiles again.
“Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, even though that’s not the whole truth, or even the half-truth. I am wriggling because my clit is aching, my nipples tingling as though goose pimples are rising on them; even my ass cheeks are buzzing in some strange way, like they want to be groped by this giant man.
He leaves the painting and comes and stands over me. He is so large that his shadow obscures me, leaving me in semi-darkness, so large that when he stands over me it’s as though only he and I exist; I am trapped here, beneath him. That should make me scared—Neanderthal, brute, animal, I should say—but it does not.
“You’re shocked that I have a heart,” he says, staring down at me with an intense expression now. Horny? Angry? Somewhere in between? I don’t know. All I know is it intrigues and excites me. “You were thinkin’ about me as some kind of ape-man, eh?”
“No,” I lie. I should push myself to my feet and walk to the door, hold it open, and tell him thank you so much for coming by but now he must leave; I should ask him to back up. But I don’t. I just sit here, because no matter how much I reason with myself, my mind does not care about reason. And even my reason is weak, now. He cared. I saw it with my own eyes. He really cared.
“No?” He tilts his head. “Really? Then why were you shocked, sweetheart?” He watches me closely for a few moments, and then says, “Do you know what I reckon? I reckon that for this past week you’ve been fantasizing about me, and now here I am, not the man you thought I was, and it’s making you damn horny. Don’t tell me it isn’t. I know a horny woman when I see one.” All at once, he’s kneeling next to me so that our heads are on the same level, our eyes staring directly at each other, our lips poised directly at each other. “No, Allison, I’m not just a fuckin’ brute, just, but I am a fuckin’ brute. Yes, Allison, there is a soul in here somewhere, but it’s buried deep and I don’t think anybody’s ever goin’ to find it.” He is leaning forward now, invading my personal space. I can smell sweat and engine oil and cigarettes and whisky and a dozen other manly smells on him, smells that should not be appealing but with my lust propelling me are more than appetizing. I’ve always wondered how the heroines in my romance novels can look past the brutality of these men, but now I know. Lust plays a huge part, as it is with me now. “Are you scared, sweetheart?”
His breath tickles my lips. He has one hand propped on the edge of the desk and the other on the arm of my chair, enveloping me in his grip, and his breath spreads warmly over my lips and my cheeks. I open my mouth to speak, and he leans in again, so close that our lips are within inches of each other. This is my last chance, I know. This is my last chance to back away, to end this. This is my last chance to shove him hard in the chest and demand that he gets out of my office at once. I am aware that we are in my office, in the day, that down a hallway Marjorie is working, the library in full function, people on the computers or their laptops. I can hear them, quiet through the walls but real.
“I am not scared,” I say. No—I try to say. But the words don’t form. All that comes out is a small, “Ah.”
Rust grins. Fuck, that grin is hot, and his body is huge; the sort of body a woman could be willingly trapped by. And his knuckles are grazed, and his face is hard, and his eyes are black and intense.
I lay my hand on his chest, meaning to push him away, but then I find myself digging my fingernails so hard into his leather that two of them break. But I don’t feel the pain. All I feel are his lips pressed solidly against mine.
Chapter Ten
Allison
He presses his lips against mine with such force that the chair on which I’m sitting leans back on its back legs. Instead of stopping to allow the chair to its normal position, he reaches around with his huge arm and props the chair up, stopping it from falling. The kiss is warm; I feel the texture of his lips against mine, but most of all I feel the warmth our shifting mouths create. I taste him, too, whisky and cigarettes, which somehow are intoxicating. Because they remind me of who he is, of what he is: an enforcer, and yet an enforcer who gives a shit. My clit tingles crazily, urging me on. I grip the front of his leather jacket harder, so that another of my nails snap. Pain, dim, comes to me, but it is overridden at once by the pleasure.
I hear my moans fill the office, stifled because of the kiss but there, and getting louder. I tell myself to stop moaning lest somebody hears, but I don’t. I can’t. Rust leans forward, pushing the chair with his hand at the same time, so that our bodies are pressed together. I move my hand from the front of his leather to his neck, gripping onto him hard. He opens his mouth and I open mine. Our tongues brush against each other. My face is warm, heat spreading outward over my cheeks, right up to my forehead. And then—oh god, yes—and then he slides his hand down my belly toward my pussy, which is like an alarm now: ringing throughout my body and flashing for attention.
His hand smooths over the curve of my belly, and then down to my skirt. He slides it down my skirt and grabs my thigh. He grabs it hard, and signals of urgent pleasure move up my thigh to my pussy, which is the power source of the alarm, the part of me which is begging most to be touched. Up and up he moves his hand, and now any thou
ght of pushing him aware exists only in memory. His fingers spread out near my pussy, less than an inch now, and then—
He presses his middle and forefinger down, hard, on my clit, pushing so hard I feel my tights and my panties and my clit squash together. I can’t keep the kiss going; I’ll bite off his tongue from the pleasure. I throw my head back, eyelids fluttering, and bite down, clenching my teeth to stop the moans from escaping me. I know they’re going to be loud. He rubs my clit from side to side, hard, so hard I’m surprised there is no pain. It’s as though all his muscular power is concentrated in those two fingers, though I know that can’t be true. I’d be dead. I think about my romance novels, the orgasms those heroines experience, and how I have never understood them. The pleasure intensifies as the thought strikes that I may now be able to.
Rust groans as he rubs my clit. I can feel his eyes on me, taking in the way I twist and gyrate, and I find myself twisting and gyrating more and more the faster he rubs me. The passage of time is difficult to tell. I am so focused on stopping my moans whilst riding this pleasure. It’s like one second he finds my clit and the next the pleasure is mounting, the pleasure expanding like a bellows, engulfing heat touching every part of my clit. I reach down and grab his wrist, pushing his hand with more force against my clit, capturing the pleasure.
“Oh, fuck, fuck.”
Is that me? Is that really me, who sounds like a romance heroine, completely absorbed in pleasure? There is a half-second of disbelief, and then I cannot feel anything but his hand, the heat, the euphoria. He lifts me up, one hand shoved hard against my clit, the other propping my back. I sit down on his hand, riding it, so much pressure applied to my clit now I think it will burst. Fuck, fuck, fuck—and the orgasm hits me like a truck.
I am thrown backward, arching and twisting, but somehow I manage not to let out a scream. The orgasm explodes from his two fingers, two detonations which trigger my clit, and then one ginormous detonation in my clit itself. I wriggle on his hand, shifting my hips, feeling like I’m floating as he holds me up. The pleasure does not spread through me now; it surges through me. My belly, my breasts, my neck, my legs, my toes, my face—everything is red-hot with pleasure. My pussy gets tight, expands, gets tight, as the waves of the orgasm spend themselves upon me. I lean forward, gripping his shoulders, bouncing on his fingers. Each bounce provokes another searing jolt of pleasure. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper fiercely into his neck.
Slowly, the orgasm passes, and I am left panting and in shock, but I don’t have much time to recover before Rust is taking off my clothes, pulling my shirt over my head. I should tell him to stop; that was enough. But the second he starts to paw at my clothes, the residual lust left over from the orgasm starts to burn, and my mind turns not to caution but to danger—steamy, lustful danger. I help him with my shirt, and then wriggle out of my skirt and my tights, leaving me in my panties, which Rust takes off by leaning down and biting, and then snapping in his teeth. I stand up, naked before him, and watch as his eyes go wide at the sight of me.
Then we go to work on his clothes, stripping his leather off, and then his checkered shirt. I grab his belt and slide it loose; grip his pants and yank them down. He kicks off his boots and then both of us are naked, standing before each other, sweat and desire thick in the air. His body seems even bigger naked, somehow; perhaps it is because I can now see each individual muscle. His pectorals are heaving, bulbous and round. His biceps are tight and well-defined. Veins curl around his forearms. His shoulders bulge. And then his cock, Jesus Christ, his cock is massive, thick and rock-hard, pointing almost up. I swallow, wondering if I’m going to be able to take it, but then I don’t have time to wonder anything.
“Come here, sweetheart,” Rust groans, leaning forward and lifting me up by the armpits. He places me on my desk. I reach my hands under my bum and brush aside my keyboard. My computer screen is knocked backward, but I don’t care, not right now.
I lie back, legs wide, bent at the knee, toes pointed, staring up at this muscle-bound giant.
He leans over me with all his impressive power, staring hard at my breasts, and then reaches down with one hand and guides the tip of his cock to my pussy. The helmet of his cock pushes into my hole, opening it slowly, and I feel my pussy screaming out in a moment of panic: I’ve has never taken a cock of this size, or even a cock close to this size. But then the swollen head of him pushes past and the shaft enters me, and I begin to feel the pain pushed aside for incredible pleasure. Pleasure like I have never felt before. Every part of my pussy is touched by his cock, my sweet spot most of all. He thrusts and thrusts, and I am amazed that there is more of him, a whole polearm of him pushing inside of me. Then he holds it, his cock suspended, and we stare into each other’s eyes for a moment.
I reach up and grab his shoulders, feeling the bare flesh, and then I pull on him, so that he slides out of me. I feel flickers, embers, spitting fire as he slides out, and then in, and then out, and in a matter of seconds we have learnt each other’s bodies and found a perfect rhythm. I am shocked by how quickly we find this rhythm; usually it takes a while, with other men. But not with Rust. I grip his shoulders so hard that the nails which did not break on his jacket pierce his skin, beads of blood rising to the surface of his skin. I thrust to meet him, and feel the desk friction-rubbing my back, but I don’t care. All I care about is the sweet heat of his cock inside me. I hear the sounds of the library, I know that the door is not locked, but the pleasure brushes these concerns aside.
I lean up and kiss him on the lips as we writhe together, but soon our teeth are just knocking into each other, clicking, adding to the sound of the slapping of our flesh. But more than any of this I feel the orb of my hot spot deep inside of me, an orb which grows hotter and more intense each time the head of his thick cock slams into me. He starts quite slow, but then both of us are swept up in the moment and he drills into me so fucking hard I barely know where I am, who I am; all thought leaves me but for this incredible moment. I try and kiss him again, but that fails because of our shifting and so instead I bite down on his shoulder, loving the way the muscle has no give. It’s like biting solid marble.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, this pleasure is becoming too intense. This past week has led to this one moment. No—this one sensation, the sensation of being on my back, utterly powerless beneath this ripped biker, as he fucks me so hard the desk rocks back and forth, making far, far too much noise but neither of us caring. Any moment Marjorie could walk in, any minute my career could end, and yet, the pleasure is strong that I do not care. And then Rust really starts to fuck me, so hard that the desk almost falls over. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and he lifts me up, holding me above the ground and throwing me up and down so that I slam into his abs, his cock burying deep inside of me.
Again and again he slams into me, and I slam onto him, until the rhythm swiftly heading toward a crescendo: a crescendo which I urge on, which causes me to ride him quicker, more desperately, until the sensitive spot deep inside of me is now so sensitive, so hot, so sweet that I can barely comprehend anything but the ecstasy it sends humming through my body.
“I’m going to—” But I can’t speak, not any longer.
“Do it,” Rust grunts, fucking me harder.
At his words, as though at some command, the orgasm pounds into me. It feels like the head of his cock is carrying the orgasm and as he fucks me, it is delivered to my hot spot. Heat erupts, about to spread throughout me, and then at once implodes and is concentrated into my pussy, a cauldron of pleasure over-boiling in that one spot. I feel my pussy go tight around his cock like a hand gripping, so tight that he has to grunt and push with more force. My pussy responds by getting even tighter, loving the way he has to fuck me all the more viciously. I focus every ounce of my attention on the boiling cauldron, as, slowly, the over-boiling pleasure reaches other parts of my body. The spot inside of me stays the hottest, but then trickles of heat move down my legs, my knees, my toes, making them curl. I fe
el heat flush up my neck, to my cheeks. My fingers can’t do anything other than flutter burningly against Rust’s skin. I bounce up and down so hard that I know there will be pain—but that will come later. Right now, the orgasm is all that exists. And—oh, fuck, it hits me hard, again and again, wave after wave, explosion and implosions cascading as the crescendo yawns out for at least thirty seconds. And then, panting, I lay my face against Rust’s chest as the orgasm leaves me.
Seconds later, Rust begins to grunt. I bounce again, and as he comes inside of me I grab his face and kiss him on the lips, tasting him, tasting his spent pleasure and his exhaustion.
It is only when he lays me on the desk that I realize what we’ve just done.
I sit up at once, his come spilling down my thighs and onto my desk, and look around the office as though somebody has walked in whilst we were fucking and I didn’t hear them. I wouldn’t even be surprised; the pleasure was so intense. Then I jump to my feet and start to get dressed quickly, ignoring the way his come slides down my inner thighs, and purposefully not looking at him because I know that even now, after the ache of the pleasure has set in, his naked body will make me want a second taste. My tights are ruined, as are my panties; I’m going to have to go commando under my skirt and pray that nothing shows off my state. I pull on my skirt, my bra and my shirt quickly, and then I go to the door and lay my ear against it. Just the normal sounds of the library, typing and reading, talking, laughing. Nothing more.