Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Please,” I said again, but the word had changed. It wasn’t a plea for her to stop. It had become something else entirely, and we both knew it.
My breathing turned to shallow, desperate pants. My fingers gripped the far edge of the desk until my knuckles went white. The wave was right there—right there—I could feel the crest of it, could feel my body tightening around a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, and I was going to—I was about to—
Penelope’s hand stopped.
She pulled her fingers away from me in one clean motion, and the loss of contact was so sudden, so brutal, that I actually screamed. A short, strangled, disbelieving scream that turned into a sob, then turned into a frantic, writhing attempt to push my hips back toward her hand, to find the friction again, to get back to the edge she’d just shoved me away from.
“Anne.” Her voice was steady. Controlled. If I hadn’t heard her breathing change during the paddling, I might have believed she was entirely unaffected. “Look at me.”
I turned my head. My face was a wreck—I could feel it. Tears, snot, blotchy redness, mascara I’d forgotten I was wearing smeared across my cheeks. I looked at her through swollen eyes and saw her standing behind me, her fingers glistening in the lamplight, her gray eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that pinned me more effectively than her hand on my back ever had.
“Tell me you want the modeling job,” she said.
“I—” A sob broke the word in half. “I—”
“Tell me, Anne. Tell me you want it. Tell me you want to put on beautiful lingerie and let people see you. Tell me you want to surrender. Because your body already has, honey. Your body surrendered the first day you walked into this building. All I need is for your mouth to catch up.”
The wave was still there. I could feel it suspended and trembling, like a held breath in every nerve ending. All it needed was one touch. One brush of her fingers. One second of that devastating, skillful contact, and I would shatter into something I’d never been before.
“Please,” I sobbed. “Please, I want it. I want the modeling job. Please, Penelope, I want it, I’ll do it, I’ll do whatever you want, just please—please…”
The words spilled out of me. I couldn’t have stopped them any more than I could have stopped my own heartbeat. I didn’t even know, in that moment, whether I meant them or whether I simply said whatever she needed to hear to make her touch me again. The distinction had ceased to matter. Need had swallowed everything—pride, conviction, modesty—and left only this: a girl bent over a desk with her panties at her thighs, begging her boss for an orgasm and a job modeling degrading, wanton, beautiful lingerie.
Penelope didn’t answer with words.
I felt her kneel behind me. The movement was smooth, unhurried—I heard the soft rustle of her suit trousers against the carpet, felt the shift in the air as she lowered herself. Her hands found my knees, and she spread them gently but firmly, widening my stance until my thighs were parted and my polka-dot panties stretched taut between them like a cotton bridge.
Then she blew.
A single, soft breath of warm air, directed with the same kind of control she used in everything else she did, straight across the slick, swollen center of me, across the place where every nerve I possessed seemed to have gathered into a desperate network of lewd desire.
The sound I made wasn’t a moan, a scream, or a sob. It seemed all three at once: a broken, animal noise that I would have been mortified to hear coming from anyone else and that I was powerless to stop coming from myself. My hips bucked forward against the edge of the desk, then pushed back toward her mouth, seeking more, seeking contact, seeking anything other than this exquisite, torturous almost-nothing that left me shaking and clenching around emptiness.
“Oh, God,” I choked. “Oh, God, please, please, I can’t… I need…”
Penelope exhaled again, another warm breath that ghosted over my most sensitive flesh, and my knees nearly buckled. The air against my wetness felt like being touched and not touched at the same time, like being held at the very precipice of sensation without being allowed to fall. My fingers scrabbled uselessly against the desk. My forehead pressed into the wood hard enough to leave a mark. I had started to cry again—openly, messily, without any pretense of composure—and between the sobs came sounds I’d never known I could make, desperate little whimpers that belonged to a girl I didn’t recognize as myself.
“Please,” I said again. The word had become the only one I knew.
Penelope stood. I heard her rise, and then she stood behind me again, and her voice, when it came, carried a roughness that stripped away the last pretense of professional detachment.