Page 31 of Dial F for Finance

He fucks me like this for a minute—slow, controlled, his hands ruthless at my hips, holding me still for every thrust. Then he leans forward until his chest is flush against my back, teeth grazing my shoulder.

“Stop fighting what this is, Pemberton,” he says into my skin. “Stop fighting and I’ll make you come so hard you’ll forget about everything. Chicago, every single excuse you’ve ever come up with for not being here.”

I try to reply.

What actually comes out is a sharp gasp and my hands clutching the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turn white. The sight of us—his body heavy over mine, faces wild and open—is so obscene that my whole system threatens to short-circuit. I can’t remember the last time I looked at myself this way: ruined, yes, but also alive and wanting and not even trying to hide it.

He drives into me, angling up so every thrust hits some hidden place that sends lightning through my hips to my toes. Each time he fills me, I feel it everywhere, swelling tight and ready to snap.

Then he slows and runs both hands up my torso, cupping my breasts, pinching the tips until I sob out loud. “Dominic—God⁠—”

“More?” he says, and I hate the way my skin responds just to his voice.

“Don’t pretend it’s a question,” I manage. He grins in the mirror—and then his hand is between my legs, fingers gliding over my clit, rubbing hard and fast while the other palm holds my breast like he owns it.

I’m at the edge before I realize it. I try to hold out—because apparently some part of me still believes this is a contest—but then he changes the pace, and all I can focus on is the wet slap of his hips against my ass and his nails digging into my waist.

My eyes squeeze shut.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I force them open and detonate while watching his face in the mirror.

I’m loud, too loud, and he doesn’t let up, working me through it with his cock still driving into me, his fingers relentless on my clit until I nearly collapse, boneless, over the counter.

He pulls out just before he loses it. Then he turns me around and lifts me onto the counter like I don’t weigh a thing.

I’m panting, dazed, so far past afterglow I have no defenses left. My knees are still shaking when he devours my mouth, both hands bracing my face like he’s learning me by touch.

“I’m going to come all over you,” he mutters, and the filth in his voice is absurd, absolutely over-the-top, but hot enough that my body shivers again.

He fists himself, and I watch, transfixed, as he jerks off just for me, his cock glossy with my slick. It’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

When he comes, it spatters across my chest, pearls of it streaking my skin. His gaze never leaves my face as he finishes, jaw flexed, hand working his dick slow through the aftershocks. It’s possessive and unguarded and, for one disorienting second, makes me feel more claimed than even being fucked by him.

He catches his breath, then wipes the mess with his palm and smears it down my breast, over my nipple, studying his own handiwork. I should be mortified. Instead, I tingle with something so raw and hot my face burns with it.

Dominic kisses me again, teeth dragging my lower lip. “I need you to remember this the next time you try to sneak away,” he says, voice hoarse.

“I’m not going anywhere.” It’s out of my mouth before I realize what it sounds like. The words hang between us, far too close to a promise. I pull back and gasp. “Right now, I mean—I’m covered in your jizz.”

He throws his head back and laughs, deep and low. Then kisses me once more for good measure.

“We should probably fix that,” he says, scooping me up and carrying me to the shower.

Room service comes a little after six. By then I’m showered, wrapped in the hotel robe, hair twisted up off my neck, and determined to turn one dangerously open-ended evening into something with a fixed expiration date.

We eat and keep our conversation on the workday ahead. Then I open the clean Nakamura draft on my laptop because it’s the only thing I can focus on in this room that won’t make me lose my composure.

Dominic sprawls across the wrecked bed in a pair of boxers and nothing else, scrolling his phone, looking like an advertisement for a life I didn’t budget for. He’s eaten half my toast. He keeps glancing at me over the top of the screen like he’s waiting for me to admit he’s the best dick I’ve ever had.

Annoyingly, he is.

“We should talk parameters,” I say, unable to focus on the draft despite forcing my eyes to stay on my laptop.

“What parameters?”

“The kind that have you lying half-naked on my bed when you should be across the hall getting ready for today’s meetings.”