It was a now-or-never situation. He’d had enough to drink that he’d either agree with me or punch me in the mouth. I wouldn’t have minded either, but I was hoping for the former.
He was also intoxicated enough that if he did agree, he’d be free of inhibitions and maybe it’d hurt more.
For longer.
I had nothing to lose and very little likelihood of having this opportunity again.
Not with him, anyway. Someone who hated me and had a cock that size . . .
I had to put the offer out there.
And his cock was interested.
I didn’t care if he was drunk, and I didn’t care about the cut above his eye. It’d stopped bleeding and, to be honest, a little bite of pain made it fun.
So maybe if he didn’t want to fuck me, I could suck him dry again.
I wouldn’t have minded that either.
“The fuck is your problem?” he asked, his voice rough. He made no attempt to remove my hand.
I thumbed his slit, smearing precome, and twisted my hand back down his shaft so I could pump him again. My god, the size of him. “I want you to fuck me . . . hard. And my problem is that I’m not face down on my bed with your horse-cock inside me, that’s what the fuck my problem is.”
His mouth fell open.
“So, you either follow me to my room and have the best arse you’ve ever had,” I said. I let go of his cock and turned, walking to the hall. I didn’t turn around. “Or, if the answer’s no, you can call yourself a cab or sleep on the couch or the street. I don’t care.”
I got to my room, my heart pounding.
This was it.
This was the moment.
The sleeping-on-the-street comment was probably a bit much but I needed to remind him that I was a piece of shit and he hated me.
I threw lube and condoms onto the bed, pulled off my shoes and took off my jeans. I was pulling my shirt over my head when my door swung inward, and he stood there with his huge, erect cock still hanging out of his pants.
But his eyes.
He was wild.
And pissed off.
I smiled and, dropping my shirt to the floor, I knelt on the bed.
And I waited.
My chest heaving, my blood burning hot. It had been too long, far too long, and I needed this too much.
When I heard the foil wrapper being torn open, I could have wept. Then when his knee pressed onto the mattress behind me, I lowered my head to the bed and stretched my back like a cat.
He still wore his jeans, undone and open. He still wore his shoes and shirt, as if I wasn’t worth his time to take them off.
I preened a little.
A quick squirt of lube, but no prep, no warning.
He simply gripped my hips and drove himself into me. I thought he might split me open. I thought he was too big, and I couldn’t take it. I bit out a cry, a groan.
“This what you wanted?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Yes,” I cried out, gripping the bed covers. It was exactly what I wanted. What I needed.
He pushed all the way in. All the way, I was sure of it. And when his hips met my arse, he hit that wall inside me and I bucked up, crying out.
He pushed my head back down to the mattress, rough and strong, his big hand holding the back of my head down. His cock was buried so far in me, the pain of it was exquisite.
“Stay the fuck down, you piece of shit,” he said. “You want me to fuck you like I hate you?” He pulled out and drove back into me. “Because I fucking do.”
He fucked me. Hard, rough.
Yes, yes. Just like this. This is what I needed.
“You’re good for nothing,” he bit out as he fucked me over and over. “Piece of fucking shit.”
Yes. Yes.
Then his hand was on my shoulder, pressing me down, and his other gripped my hip, his nails biting into my skin, holding me so he could fill me how he wanted. He leaned over me, driving his cock into me deeper, at a much better angle.
So much better.
Fuck, yes.
His hot breath on the back of my neck, the scrape of his teeth. His cock incredibly hard, hitting the very places inside me that craved this.
“Look at how you take my cock,” he grunted. “Like the fucking whore you are.”
That serenity I’d been craving, searching for, been desperate for, settled over me.
And I came.
My cock untouched. Just pure bliss.
My release was intense, physical, and emotional. I let go of it all and that cloak of darkness that had been wrapped around me for too long was gone. It was better than I’d imagined it could be. So utterly perfect.
He came with a roar, pushing me down on the bed and ramming into me, his thick cock pulsing inside me, filling the condom.
God, I could feel it.
Every spurt.
It was heaven.
He shuddered and groaned, but then he pulled out of me.
I was bereft by his absence, hollowed out and empty. I wanted him to stay inside me. I wanted him to stay inside me until he was ready to fuck me again.
I wanted his seed inside me. So he’d know he owned me, and he could treat me as if he owned me anytime he wanted.
I wanted it to never end.
With a groan, I fell to the mattress. The gape of my ass, the residual pain and pleasure had my thighs quivering, my body jerking.
I felt so unbelievably good. That fire in me, a mere burning ember for now, glowing warm and lovely. I dared to roll onto my back, to face him. To face the consequences, perhaps. And to ask him to do it again.
But he was already gone.
I spent Sunday soaking my sore and used body in a hot bath, only leaving my apartment to collect a grocery delivery from the foyer in the evening.
I also spent the day relishing every ache, every twinge. The high of the incredible fucking I’d got last night lingered on every nerve.
I was lounging in front of the TV with Enzo asleep on me when I got a text from Lleyton.
How was drunk Rocky in the car? I’m assuming you survived?
Drunk Rocky. I snorted at that, but to answer his question, I did more than survive. I’d never felt so good.
I sure did.
Monday morning arrived and I wasn’t surprised that Marshall didn’t show up to the managers’ meeting. He should have, but he’d made it pretty clear that he thought his time was better spent elsewhere. And I did have his paperwork and reports, so him sitting in head office for an hour probably wasn’t the best use of his time. But it wasn’t an optional invitation.
Other managers had to comply, and so should he.
His insubordination reflected poorly on me, and I needed to lay down some rules.
Rules and boundaries.
Because I also needed him to fulfil my other needs, so this was a minefield to navigate, and it wasn’t a minefield I’d ever walked through before.
I was aware there were lines being crossed, and this had bad idea written all over it, and I also knew the scales of privilege were weighted in my favour.
I knew all of that.
And yet I didn’t want to stop.
When the staff meeting was over, I buzzed my assistant, Shayla. “Can you please set up a meeting with Mr Marshall Wise in my office at five o’clock today? Thank you.”
“Sure thing,” she replied.
I doubted that. He would probably rather walk through lava than have a meeting with me, but this was a work issue.
Yet sure enough, at two minutes after five, Marshall Wise arrived at my office. His eye was a little swollen at the corner, but the cut was healing. He wore his long cargos and work boots, and he was covered in what appeared to be dust and dirt. He offered no apology for making a mess on my office furniture and I could deduce that was because he wasn’t the least bit sorry.
His jaw bulged and those fiery eyes lasered into me.
“Thank you for coming in,” I began.
“Like I had a choice.”
I bit back a smile because, oh boy, his anger aimed at me was so good.
“We need to discuss your absences from our team meetings,” I began. He went to speak, opened his mouth to do so, and I raised my hand. “It’s a requirement of all site managers and giving you an exemption is not fair on the others, and it reflects poorly upon myself.”
“No, making it a requirement to waste a site manager’s time is a poor reflection on you.”
I could barely hide my surprise, but . . . was he wrong?
I wasn’t sure he was.
“Do you have any suggestions for workplace communications that better suits everyone’s time?”
He squinted at me. “Are you taking the piss?”
“No. It’s a serious question. If you can put forward a better option, I’ll be happy to hear it.”
He stared at me—clearly not expecting me to ask this—then his gaze went to the window and around my office, then back to me. “I’ll . . . I’ll have to have a think. But not meetings. You got all the information you need in our reports and sh—stuff. And on a Monday morning of all days. That’s the worst. When does a client wanna see something or make changes or request my time? Monday morning.”
“Okay, fair enough. I look forward to hearing some alternatives.”
He squinted at me again as if he was trying to figure me out.
Good luck with that . . .
“Sooo,” he hedged, about to stand up. “Is that it?”
Here goes nothing . . .
“Matters pertaining to work, yes.”
He was halfway standing when he cut me an oh-shit look. He got to his full height slower, his face a stoic mask. “Ah, yeah, about that—”
“I won’t discuss personal matters here,” I said sharply. “Though I would like to talk, yes.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“I can’t make you,” I said, looking up at him, my expression neutral. Thank god he couldn’t hear my heart knocking against my ribs. “But if you’re interested in hearing my proposal, be at my place at nine.”
“Proposal?”
“Nine o’clock.”
His nostrils flared and the loathing in his glare made my blood warm. I wanted to tell him to save his anger, to lock it down tight until I was ready for him to unleash it, but I was serious about not discussing personal matters at work.
A boundary more for his protection than mine.
He turned and left without another word, and I had to wonder if he’d show up. I hoped he would, though part of me questioned his defiance and how perhaps he wouldn’t show up purely out of spite.
But I had a feeling he’d show. A burning feeling low in my belly that reminded me of hope.
By eight thirty, my nerves were almost electric. By eight fifty, I’d convinced myself he wasn’t coming, and when nine o’clock came and went, I was disappointed.
But not surprised.
I poured myself a glass of red wine as some kind of consolation prize when the intercom buzzer went, and I smiled when I saw it was him on the camera. It was ten past nine and I had to wonder if he’d made me wait on purpose.
Probably.
I buzzed him through and, leaving my front door open for him, I took a mouthful of wine for courage. I heard the elevator but still jumped at the gentle knock on my door. “Come in.”
He came to an awkward stop near the couch. He wore jeans and a hoodie, and he shoved his hands into his pockets.
Instead of any kind of greeting or smile, I gestured to the bottle. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“No.”
Okay then.
I took my glass and opted for the couch, hoping it was more casual than the dining table. I sat, and he waited for a few beats, clearly unsure of what to do.
“Take a seat,” I suggested.
He came around the couch, awkward and uncomfortable, and sat down at the same time Enzo saw me and decided to jump onto my lap. I ran my hand from his head down his back and he sat and stared at our company.
“Did I come here so you can both judge me?” Marshall asked.
“I’m not judging you,” I said.
Marshall nodded to Enzo. “He is.”
Then, like the treasonous fleabag he was, Enzo stepped off me and padded across the distance between us to curl up on Marshall’s lap instead.
He made a face. “Uhhh.”
“I see now why his full pedigree name is Enzo the Traitor.”
Marshall’s gaze cut to mine. “Was that . . . did you just make a joke?”
“Maybe.” I sighed and sipped my wine. “Your eye looks good. No swelling, slight bruising. I thought you’d have a black eye for sure.”
He stared at me, his jaw ticking. “You said you had a proposal,” he said, cutting right to the chase.
No small talk, then.
Good.
“Yes. About what we did on Saturday night.”
His eyes widened and his cheeks bloomed with colour. “Ah, yeah, about that.” He fixed his gaze on the window, flinching with uncertainty. “I, uh, I’m not entirely sure what that was.”
I never took my eyes off him and sipped my wine. “It was exactly what I wanted you to do.”
His eyes cut to mine and his lips parted. He was clearly unsure of what to say. Or perhaps he was unsure of what to make of me. “You, uh . . . you—”
“I’d like you to do it again,” I said, as if I was discussing the weather.
He stared at me as though I’d just asked him to rob a bank with me. “The fuck?”
“Yes. Thoroughly and with as much contempt as you can holster.”
He dumped Enzo onto the couch and walked to the end of the room, then turned to face me, his hand to his forehead. He looked a little pale, or perhaps it was the low lighting. “What—and I mean this with as much sincerity as possible—the actual fuck? You want me to hate-fuck you?”
Hate-fuck.
That made me smile. “Yes.”
Now he looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had.
“So that’s your proposition?” he asked. He was very obviously stunned. “You want me to . . . like Indecent Proposal or some freaky shit? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“That list is quite long.”
“Exactly. You don’t want me to fuck you, you need a therapist.”
“I had one. He assured me my methods were, if safe and consensual, perfectly fine.”
Marshall gawped at me. It was almost comical. “Then you need a new therapist.”
I had one of those too. I’d had several therapists, psychologists, and even one psychiatrist. I knew what my issues were, I knew from where they stemmed, and I knew all too well how to soothe them.
“No, I need someone who can’t stand me to hold me down and fuck me.”
He stared at me, then he laughed. “You’re . . . you’re . . .” He shook his head. “What makes you think I’d be even remotely interested in fulfilling your fucked-up fantasies? Why would I do this for you?”
“Because you hate me. You look at me as if you’d like to strangle me or beat the shit out of me.” I sipped my wine again, meeting his gaze. “Plus, you have a huge cock, and you know how to use it.”
His mouth fell open.
“And you have to admit,” I said with a hint of smugness. “I have a great arse, and I would be a sure thing twice a week.”
“Twice a week?”
“Yes. Once a week would be anal, just like you did on Saturday night. The other night, whichever night you choose, you can use me for whatever you want.”
He stared at me, obviously trying to gauge my sincerity, and when he saw I wasn’t joking, he let out a laugh. “Holy shit, you’re serious.”
“Yes.”
He turned to face the wall of glass, his hand fixed in his hair. It gave me a wonderful side view of his body. Strong, fit, and— Was that a bulge in his jeans?
It was honestly difficult to tell, given the size of his dick.
I gave him time to think this over, though I was fast losing hope. I knew it was a long shot at best.
“As for work,” I added, “nothing changes. You still do your job, and I do mine. You get no special favours, and I still expect you to meet all your duty requirements. No more, no less. And you should expect me to still be fair and reasonable, as I am with all other managers. No more, no less.” I shrugged. “And we tell no one, of course.”
“You know that’s real easy for you to say. You’re the boss. Nothing would change for you. But when your ‘proposal’ ends badly—which you know it fucking will, right?—I’ll be thrown under the bus.”
“How?”
“You can’t see the power exchange here? Jesus Christ, you know what? The fact you can’t see it is reason enough for me to tell you to fuck off.” He shook his head. “This is insane.”
“The power exchange is in your favour,” I said. It wasn’t exactly true, but I held his gaze. “You get to treat me like garbage. You can walk in here whenever you want, throw me down, put a load in me, and walk out.”
His mouth opened wider, as did his eyes.
I shrugged and sipped my wine.
“Are you . . . ?” He shook his head, words clearly failing him.
“Insane? No. Serious? Yes.” I looked down at his crotch. “And I can tell you like the sound of it.”
He adjusted himself. “Jesus Christ.”
I put my wine glass on the coffee table and crossed my legs. “Your job will not be affected. You have my word.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“What else do you want?”
“I don’t know. Christ.” He ran his hand through his hair again. “You know there are clubs for this kinda shit? Sex clubs or whatever. They do this shit.”
“I’ve tried them,” I replied. “They only play the part. They don’t really hate me. You, on the other hand, don’t even try to hide it.”
“Why should I hide it?” he said. That look of utter contempt for me was back. It made me feel . . . something. “It’s no secret what your family did to mine. People should know what a fucking piece of shit you are.”
I bit back a hum and tried not to smile as his insult sent a shiver through me. “Yes,” I murmured. “And wouldn’t you like me to pay for that? By holding my face into the mattress while you rough-fuck me, to prove again and again that you’re—”
He put his hand up. “Yeah, that’s enough. I’m done here.”
He got to the door when my voice stopped him.
“I’ll give you a week to think about it. No strings attached, no questions asked, just sex and nothing more. Like friends with benefits—”
With his hand on the door handle, he gave me a snarl over his shoulder. “We are not friends.”
I smiled at him. “And that makes it so much better.”
