by Kent, Julia
Oh, my God, she was losing her mind.
Jeremy started humming in the silence. Matt glared at him after a few seconds, giving Lydia something to attach to. What was Jeremy humming?
His head bouncing to and fro, Jeremy continued his little song, smiling at Matt.
He was humming You Are My Sunshine.
“Did you interrupt us for fun, or is there some work purpose, Lydia?” Matt asked, irritated and slapping Jeremy on the shoulder, which caused him to stop mid-bar and grin madly at Lydia.
Her face flushed as she reconciled the humor and the anger, struggling for balance. How rude! And of all the days to feel so frumpy and off-kilter, the thirteen-hour day beating her senseless and wearing her down. Vulnerable and raw, being treated like his little administrative slave was about as appealing as fetching Dave's double soy latte.
Jeremy wore a simple red t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops. Not exactly corporate wear, while Matt seemed ready to take on the executive suite with a fine suit about three levels – no, make it six – above his pay grade. Only the lack of a tie made it look “business casual.”
Ish.
Careful attention to their bodies, to detail, was her saving grace in keeping her temper in check. “The MacMillan account needs to know specifics for the next in-person meeting,” she answered, seething. Jeremy noticed the change and stood, eyes alarmed, and headed toward the door.
“I'll catch you later,” he said to Matt, then tipped his head at Lydia with a nod goodbye.
She didn't return it, eyes zeroed in on Matt. Tapping her toe, she splayed her palms up, a gesture of extreme impatience.
Squaring his shoulder, he planted his hands on his hips and said, “Yes?” as he shook his head, a jerk-like quality that made her whole body roil in fury.
“The MacMillan meeting? When do you want me to schedule it? They're asking and need to make travel arrangements.”
“Do you really need to consult me for every silly little detail like this? Isn't it your job?”
Rolling her tongue in her mouth, she imitated his stance, her hands on her hips now, defiant. “I'm just doing exactly what you say,” she replied, matching his tone. “Sir,” she spat out.
“This whole malicious obedience schtick isn't going to work, you know.” Confusion clouded her features. She didn't know what he was talking about.
“Malicious obedience?”
He washed his face with his hands, then ran them through his hair, keeping his arms stretched above his head, showing off those perfect arms. Rein it in, Lydia, she warned herself. Not now.
Not here.
“You plan only to follow orders, right?”
She smirked.
“Go tell MacMillan we'll meet on August 20.”
Spinning on her heel, she left the room. He followed, and then in a low, clear voice, “And kiss my ass.”
Time stood still. The universe imploded. Her entire body was a supernova.
Because he had just given a direct order.
And she needed to maliciously obey it.
Her breath poured out of her in heaving gasps, the room so small it was starting to feel claustrophobic, and all she could feel was the rush of blood through her ears, her heart pounding, and how much she wanted to kiss him, touch him, be with him right now.
Being hurt like this, having him put up a wall and keep her firmly behind it, was blindingly stupid. It made absolutely no sense, and she wished she'd stayed so late. Glowing light from the naked bulbs high in the ceiling made him seem more menacing than he was, hands on his hips, jaw tight and face a mask of granite.
Some part of him seemed to thaw as his mouth turned up a half-grin, not a smile, but a wry, angry look, cold and harsh.
Without thinking, she walked back, bent down and did it, reaching around him, touching his waist as if she had the right to access his body at will, kissing his butt with a big, loud “Mwah!” Standing, she glared at him, arms crossed, daring him to respond. Blinking steadily, he worked to avoid a reaction; she could see his struggle and wanted to laugh.
Ignore me now, she thought.
Their breathing filled the room. Anger dominated. Matt should have been the one in power, but instead her hurt, his restraint, and their – what? Misunderstanding? – hung out and stayed for a while, managing this internal state of affairs.
“Do as I say, “ she mocked, pretending to use his voice, co-opting his own words from the other day. “Fine. I kissed it.” Cocking one shoulder, she stared him down. A luxurious, sinful heat made its way slowly from her lips to her chest, spreading down her torso and lighting her clit on fire, the throbbing nearly audible in this tiny, dim space. His office wasn't her idea of romantic. This would have to do for a showdown, her skin nearly begging him to touch it, her eyes hooded and, she hoped, holding back her yearning.
Righteously pissed, she didn't enjoy being toyed with. Tender treatment in his hands at her apartment the other night couldn't possibly translate into the cold shell he'd put up recently. He needed to choose.
Now.
Those fine, manicured hands reached for his belt buckle, practiced and smooth movement beginning to unbuckle his belt. A sultry grin spread across his face, tempered by a slow, furious burn that scared her just enough to titillate.
“What are you doing?” she asked slowly, eyebrows arching up.
As he undid the buckle, he peeled the leather belt out of the loops, then folded it, snapping, the sound like a voice crying out in pleasure, her own throat strangling on a little mewl she suppressed.
“Enabling you to do as you were told,” he answered, his voice smooth like fine whisky as he snaked his pants down over his hips.
Commando.
Plunging into her was the only image his mind would hold, his brain racing ahead of himself, wanting her teeth to sink into his shoulder as he made her come, wracked with climax after climax until she went liquid and limp in his arms. Fine cotton clung to that ample ass, with curves riding the soft grey skirt until his mind could think of nothing but handfuls of her, of his palms caressing that creamy skin, of her thighs pressed against his ribcage, ankles crossed behind him, driving her face into a twisted ecstasy only he could – or ever would – see.
Because he made her like that.
This fucking office was the least romantic spot he could imagine, devoid of passion and luxury, and yet if this was it – this was it. Mike had woken up determined to hold himself back, to close himself off, to make sure she couldn't lead him astray from his singular purpose: billionaire status. Fucking her against the door with his hot breath whispering dirty encouragement, though, was how his night would end.
“Kiss my ass, Lydia. That's an order,” he commanded, cock strong and rigid, pointing to the ceiling. Stepping out of his pants, he striped his shirt off in one fluid movement, body against hers in seconds. The shift of his skin against her clothing felt illicit, as if stealing something he wasn't supposed to know he could take.
Her look of shock would have made him laugh if this moment weren't so intensely serious. Rough and ready, he plunged his hands into her hair, pulled her face up and kissed her, tongue probing, searching, using his anger to drive how much he needed her directly into her, through the warm wet center of Lydia.
Her body melted into his, soft breasts pressing against his pecs, hands roping around his waist, the touch cold, then warm, then searching, combing over every inch of his back and shoulders. Their breath was heavy, his hand reaching under her skirt, finding that she too was wearing no panties, leaving her open for his fingers to slip in, to know how much she was ready for him.
She reached around his cock, her fingers encasing it and he groaned, the vibration from his throat throbbing into his center now. His knees relaxed and then he stood, sliding up her body, shoulders arching, bending over her, taking as she gave, her hand beginning to stroke him, the feeling too much. He was too close. With a growl he picked her up, wrapped those luscious legs around him, sunk his hands into the flesh
of her voluptuous ass and pinned her waist to him. Seconds away from entering her he stopped, then lowered them both to the floor, barely enough room for what he was determined to do.
He would find a way to make it work. Sliding her skirt up with both hands, he enjoyed the sensation of her soft, quivering thighs, and then his mouth kissed the inside of each, her head tipping back, her neck outstretched within his view, a thin blue vein skittering as her pulse raced. The taste of her was exactly how he'd imagined it in his fantasies, which had increasingly become dominated by her, her, and her. Something spicy, a bit sweet and yes, tart – not bitter. Tongue hinting at what he was about to do, he flicked the tiniest of licks directly on her nub and she arched up, meeting his mouth, making him smile.
Lydia's entire being was one long glowing electric nerve, centered directly on her clit, his tongue piercing her, eliciting a warm glow from her pores that she didn't know was possible. As the welcoming sensuality of his mouth teased out the very hint of an orgasm she sank her hands into his flesh, finding it rock hard, shoulders, biceps, forearms, the relief map of veins and sinew and man.
He was fully naked, bent down, pleasuring her and she was accepting.
Her breath hitched as his mouth drew out muscles she didn't know she could control, a lust that pooled in her belly and then unwound. Tightening, releasing, tightening, releasing to grow sensations larger, making her pant, making her skin light and floating. A magic tongue, Matt stroked and licked and laved his way to bring her release, to elicit this most intimate of moments from her body, to draw her out. And the feeling of those big strong hands on her hip bones, on her waist, sliding up under her blouse to cup her breasts, and then further, tickling earlobes. One hand went down and he slipped a finger into her wet, eager passage, then two, hooking them up to find that spot. He seemed to know her body so well, and yet they were strangers when it came to flesh like this.
The rough industrial carpet underneath her bare bottom scratched, yet she barely noticed. His hands, his tongue, his mouth all acted in concert to give her something she had so desperately needed for so painfully long. And then she tipped, her body bucking against his mouth, seeking more, more, more of this moment, of this pleasure, of this blinding white light behind closed eyes, that spread into every muscle in her body, turning her taut, turning her clenched, turning her into a muscled expansion of everything.
Lydia became the light, she became the dark, she became his arm, she became the walls, all of it exploding as she thrust and clenched and screamed behind gritted teeth, thumping and wriggling and writhing her way to ecstasy.
Neither of them said a single word. It was remarkable, really. She didn't need to. He seemed to know exactly where to touch, and when, and how, and oh, how. He sat back on his knees, quite pleased with himself from the Cheshire cat smile on his face. She paused, simply to take him in. The plane of this cheekbones, the strong jaw, the rugged tanned skin, how his shoulders stretched so far, like an inverted triangle going down over cut muscle, strong pecs, a smattering of sandy hair and the scalloped edges of his waist, narrowing down to a thicker thatch of hair, and an absolutely enormous erection that made her want to put her mouth on it, to envelop him in the warm cave of her tongue. She had another passage that was just as eager for him, but that would come soon enough.
Right now, she had to do some ass-kissing.
She sat up, crawled behind him, leaned down and quite literally kissed his naked ass. Matt burst out laughing, grabbed her, pinned her down on the floor and pressed his lips into hers, giving her ample taste of herself, the act so intimate she nearly cried with the joy of finding someone who wouldn't think twice about such a thing, and for whom this easy give and take was in fact so easy. The kiss went from playful to serious, his cock pressed into her hip, his hands pulling for her bra, unleashing her breasts which rubbed against the rough fabric of her shirt.
The office was small, had a small couch, the same couch where Jeremy had been moments ago, and she pulled him up, then pushed him down on the cushions. As she pulled her skirt up, he took control, stripping her shirt off – almost ripping one seam. Taking a rosy, pebbled nipple into his mouth, the feeling sent electric shocks directly into her eager pussy. She nuzzled his neck and straddled, climbing on, grateful for the birth control she'd stayed on since college. So wet, she needed no more, she hovered over the mushroom tip, his hands possessing her body, filling his with the pliant flesh of her ass.
He moved his hands up to her ribcage, squeezed in with a powerful act that pulled her down on him, impaled. Oh, how she shuddered as he filled her, her mouth open, tongue between her teeth, all hope of control lost. She lifted her ass using thigh muscles, and her back slowly plunging back down, sliding up and down his shaft with exquisite, languid movement that wrung every moment of frictioned joy out of this union.
The taste of him, of them, of their communion, of her essence, of his musk – blended with the sheer power of his pelvic movements, controlling how he drove into her, hammering home his want. She could feel him slamming into something deep inside her, opening it, creating a wedge that would crack wide a part of Lydia that she could not put back in the box.
A diffuse vortex of desire, of arousal, of pain from pleasure – began to build in her. She shifted, and then the movement of his hips into her, of his cock fucking her, allowed her clit to slide along his thigh as they worked together to bring each other to a place they could never visit without this joining.
His muscles tightened, his neck went rigid, and his lips that had been claiming her mouth, her tongue, suddenly went loose and unfocused as he concentrated on what was building within, her own building so great that she began to lose all sense of intent.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. He made a sound. It wasn't even a word, more an acknowledgment, like a prayer in a language only lovers could speak in the act of the flesh joining like this.
In the distance, an industrial sound caught her ear. A horn beeped. Rain began to pelt the window. He began to push into her, faster, harder, deeper, slamming into whatever it was that was breaking inside, that needed his kind of power. Her wet, pink pussy walls clamped down hard, her ass tightening, all of her core working together to encase him in nothing but her body. Nothing but Lydia, so that he would know that the moment he came it was all her, her, her.
A choked cry from his lips sent a tingle of power, of victory through her, for she knew that he was about to know it, to know her. And her own orgasm came slamming into her with that knowledge, sending her over, tipping her into ecstasy, into a nerve release that pulsated out of her like a supernova as she bucked and screamed and leaned down, biting his shoulder, calling nonsense into his flesh as they thrust and thrust and thrust toward a new and complete abandon, giving in, finally, to what they restrained for far too long.
He kissed her as aftershocks coursed through her, his lips less sure and more just wanting connection. She slipped over him, full to the brim with his cock, which she began to feel loosen inside. Her breath on his ear, his breath in turn on her neck, seemed like testimony to the passion that they had just spent.
“Fuck me,” he gasped. Combing her fingers through her hair, she lifted up and smiled, a coy look of teasing.
“Is that an order?”
They both fell into easy chuckles, her body poured over his, ear pressed to his chest and hearing the steady thump-THUM-thump-THUM of his heart. One knee hitched up and her thigh stretched across his hip, his hands making lazy caresses across her shoulder. Comfortable. Cocooned.
Sated.
Finally. Giving in to her attraction had been a terrible professional move, but if he'd only wanted a clean fuck he'd have gone about it quite differently. This snuggling, how his breath played on her forehead, the way he rested on the couch completely naked, confident in his own skin, made her feel something she has nearly driven out, purposefully, since he'd arrived.
Hope.
I'm Batman, he kept thinking, the phrase looping endlessly through
his mind right now, channeling the moment in the movie when Bruce Wayne wants – needs – to reveal his true identity. Nestled close to him, half-naked and covered in his juices, Lydia was a goddess, a wild-fire woman with a hedonistic streak that came out during sex.
Thank God.
Kissing her forehead, he stroked her arm as the endorphin rush kicked in, making him settle into this state, nowhere else he'd rather be right now. Michael Bournham had finally found a woman who could complete so much that was unfinished in his life, and yet –
He had to accept her as Matt Jones.
Panting, he stared at the ceiling, noting how harsh the cheap fluorescent lights were and making a mental list of ways he could upgrade the offices for the middle-management and clerical staff. How romantic, a voice in his head intoned. It sounded suspiciously like Jeremy. It didn't faze him that he was completely naked, formerly-throbbing member now wilting, the chill of air conditioning triggering gooseflesh over every inch of carefully-tanned skin.
The truth crouched in his throat, waiting to spring forward, owing her so much, wanting her even more. Needing this moment to last forever, he inhaled her scent, that sweet vanilla tinged with her musk, imprinting in his nose, his mind, his heart. Lydia deserved to know the truth, a reveal so great he nearly shook with the prospect of saying the words. Being Matt Jones had been very hard at first, but now?
Being himself was harder.
His eyes crawled over the window, thirty-odd floors above the city, the cars and streetlights and people seeming so big compared to his normal view from the executive suite on the top floor. How cute. How real, like Lydia, her soft curves a stark contrast to the angular, hungry women he normally dated, women who spent nine hours a week with an expensive trainer to convince and cajole their bodies into fighting aging, often winning. Trading down for a younger model never appealed to him; he tended to date women who were seasoned enough to be interesting, but these days they were all the same, like well-honed reproductions of fine art. Good enough to stare at but lacking something he couldn't put his finger on.