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)
Penelope came with a sound I’d never heard a woman make. It started low… a guttural, shuddering groan that seemed to begin somewhere beneath her diaphragm… and then it rose, climbing through registers until it broke into something high and fractured and raw, a cry that filled the office and bounced off the glass walls and the mahogany desk and the tasteful watercolors and made all of it, the corporate décor, the professional veneer, the expensive suit around her ankles, seem like a costume that had finally been torn away.
Her thighs clamped around my head. Her hand in my hair pulled so hard that tears sprang to my eyes. Her hips thrust upward against my mouth in three sharp, convulsive bucks, and I felt the flood of her against my tongue, hot and slick and copious, a rush of wetness that coated my chin, ran down my neck, and soaked the collar of my cream blouse.
Her inner muscles clenched palpably, her stomach going rigid beneath the silk shell, and she held me there, pressed against her through the aftershocks, through the shuddering descent, through the long exhale that followed… until her grip finally loosened and her thighs fell open and I could breathe.
I knelt there, panting, my face glazed with her musky need. My lips tingled and my body vibrated with an arousal so acute it felt like pain. Between my own legs, the throbbing had become a pulse that seemed to radiate outward from my center and consume my entire lower body, a need so urgent and so specific that I could feel the shape of it, the exact dimensions of the emptiness it demanded be filled.
Penelope’s head lolled against the back of her chair. Her chest rose and fell in deep breaths. Her eyes were closed. For perhaps thirty seconds she didn’t move, didn’t speak, and I knelt at her feet and pressed my thighs together and tried not to think about how desperately, how devastatingly, how completely I needed to be touched.
Then Penelope opened her eyes. She looked down at me—flushed, disheveled, her burgundy silk panties still pulled to one side, her expression carrying the languid satisfaction of a woman thoroughly pleasured. She smiled. It was a warm smile. A genuine one, even. But behind the warmth I could see the machinery turning, the calculations being made.
“Good girl,” she said softly. “That was lovely, Anne. You’re a very talented little thing.”
She reached for her phone on the desk. Her movements were unhurried and almost lazy. They seemed like the movements of a woman who had nowhere to be and nothing to prove. She unlocked the screen with her thumb and typed something, her manicured nails clicking faintly against the glass. I watched her compose a text message, my heart hammering, my thighs still pressed together in that futile, treacherous compression that accomplished nothing except making me more aware of how swollen and wet and desperate I was.
The message sent with a soft whoosh. Penelope set the phone face up on the desk and looked at me while we waited.
“I asked Master Paul if I could let you come.”
My stomach dropped.
The phone buzzed. Penelope picked it up, read the response, and set it down again. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes—a flicker of amusement, or perhaps of cruelty wearing amusement’s face—told me the answer before she spoke it.
“Master Paul says no,” Penelope said. Her voice was gentle. Almost sympathetic. The way a doctor’s voice is gentle when delivering bad news. “You’re not allowed to come, Anne. Not until he says so.”
The sound that escaped me was small and wretched—a whimper that rose from the very bottom of my belly and emerged through lips still swollen and slick from making Penelope come. My hands, which had been gripping my own knees, tightened until my knuckles went white.
“He wants you frustrated,” Penelope continued, reaching forward to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that felt almost maternal and therefore almost unbearable. “He wants you to feel it. All night. The wanting. The ache. He wants you to go home and lie in your bed and feel how empty you are, how much your body needs what only he can give it, and he doesn’t want your little cunt touched, by me or anyone else but him. Can you do that for him?”
“I…” My voice cracked, and I spoke without any idea of whether I told the truth. “Yes. I can do that.”
“Good.” Penelope smiled and withdrew her hand. “You can pull my panties back into place, and then you can go back to your desk. You have data entry to finish, I believe.”
I reached forward with quivering fingers and straightened the burgundy silk, settling the gusset back into place against her with a care that felt absurdly reverent given what my mouth had just done. Penelope lifted her hips and I pulled her dove-gray trousers up her thighs, and she took over from there, fastening the clasp and smoothing the fabric with a few efficient motions that reassembled her professional armor as if nothing had happened.