I hissed as I leaned back into him, begging for more . . . for more of everything . . . for more of him. His hand slid roughly up my body, untucking my shirt, before he found my breast and groped it. My body was his. I was at his mercy.
“I’ve fantasized so many times about bending you over this desk and fucking you senseless.” On this particular day, I was wearing a skirt; a longer one that reached my knees. He began pulling the material up until he saw my ass.
“Damn, I love that ass,” he admired. “Bend over the desk, Clara,” he ordered me. “I want to see that perfect ass sticking out, waiting for me to slap it.”
I did as he said and lay down on the desk, my ass out and at his mercy. Being with Paul was unlike anything I had ever experienced. He was good at not letting me think too much about what we were doing. He was confident in a way the other men I had been with weren’t. Sex had been awkward at times for me in the past. There was always so much planning or overthinking. Mostly from me. I was an analytical person; my mind was always trying to move to the what-ifs and so on. Other men, and by other men, I meant two at that time, could never get me out of my own head. Paul did what he wanted and trusted that it was what I wanted. He trusted if he did something I didn’t like, that I would tell him. But until I did, he would keep going. That worked well for me. I liked everything he did to me.
His hand gently slid across my cheek before he slapped it firmly. I grunted with the sting, but stayed in position. I heard the office chair squeak as he rolled it back and took a seat. Then I felt his teeth on my flesh, that delicious bite of pain, before he kissed the same spot, soothing it.
With his finger, he gently tugged my panty aside, exposing me to him, before running his tongue over my wet skin. I moaned, my eyes fluttering closed in pleasure.
“You taste so fucking good,” he growled before licking me again. Damn, I loved when he talked dirty to me.
“Does she now?”
My eyes flew open at the question.
At the voice.
Fuck.
Marcus.
Marcus was standing in the doorway of the office, staring right at us.
Paul let my panty slide back into place before hastily tugging my skirt down and standing. My body felt like a wave of fire had brushed over it, and I knew I had to be bright red. Neither of us said anything. Paul stood a few feet away, and given the moment, the awkwardness of it, it felt off. Obviously off in the sense Marcus had just walked in on Paul’s face on my ass, but also how Paul had seemingly moved away from me. Did he think distancing himself from me would make what Marcus just witnessed look any less what it was? Did it really matter what Marcus thought? So what if Paul and I were together, if that’s what one wanted to call it, even though we never really officially said we were. Why should Marcus care? I felt alone and exposed in that moment. I crossed my arms as a silent stare down ensued between the two men.
“Banging your uncle’s sloppy seconds,” Marcus mused. “Classy, Paul.”
My blood pressure shot up like a rocket. “Fuck you, Marcus,” I seethed. “I did not have any sexual relations with Dennis. Get. Over. It.”
“Did he like bending you over desks, too, Clara?” Marcus jeered, ignoring me. He wasn’t going to let up. Not this time. He’d caught me with my pants down—or skirt up—and he was taking no prisoners. I shot my gaze to Paul, looking for some backup. But he said nothing.
Not. One. Fucking. Word.
He’d never really stood up for me. And in the few times Marcus and I went at each other in Paul’s presence, he danced around both of us on his tippy-toes like he was on a floor made of eggshells. My heart dropped to my stomach. Marcus was calling me a whore, basically. Again. And Paul said nothing.
His dark eyes were trained on the floor as he shoved his hands in his pockets. I stared at him. I knew he could feel it; there’s no way he couldn’t. But he stood silent and let Marcus’ insults hang in the air.
I turned and grabbed my purse. When the strap caught on the arm of the desk chair, I yanked at it angrily, my frustration rearing its ugly head. Keep your cool, Clara. Don’t let Marcus win. When I finally freed it, I slipped it over my shoulder and met Marcus’ stare. He was smirking. He thought he had me figured out. I wanted to smack that smirk right off his face. It took all of my strength not to. And that’s when I got petty. I was so angry and . . . well . . . hurt, I lost my way for a moment. Meeting Marcus’ gaze head-on, I gave him a tempered smirk.
“I guess you’ve figured it out,” I chirped. “Dennis and I were lovers.”
You could have heard a pin drop in that room. They were both stunned. I knew Paul’s eyes were trained on me now, but I refused to look at him. I couldn’t. I hated him in that moment. Marcus may have been the one that insulted me, but Paul’s mute stance hurt worse. It was the bigger insult.