Page 7 of Devil In A Suit, Vol. 2

The silence between us is as vast as an ocean.

After what seems like an eternity, his entire body relaxes, actually physically uncoils. That detached cool comes over him once again, and he sits back in his chair.

“Close the door,” he says.

I don’t know if that means I’m fired now or will be fired later, but I don’t want to stay to have the conversation. I don’t even care that he’s going to get the last word, because I got the best words, so fuck him. I whirl around on my heel and stomp out of the office. I’m halfway through the door when he stops me.

“No,” he says, his voice dropping into that animalistic growl I remember from the other night. “Close the door. But you stay in here with me.”

Another order. I will myself to ignore him, to walk out of the office and don’t look back, but my traitorous body has other ideas. I feel heat rushing down into my abdomen, blooming outward as a chill runs up my spine.

I shut the door with a soft click and turn, but he’s across the floor in three long strides of his muscular legs. In one fluid motion he has a hand around my waist and another fisting my hair as he pulls me roughly to his mouth. His kiss is hard and punishing, paying me back for all I’ve just said to him. It’s pain and pleasure in one moment. He pushes my lips apart with his tongue, then nips at my lower lip with enough force to make me yelp. The instinct to slap him comes over me, but he grips me tight enough that I can’t move, except to move into him.

Which I do. Despite my anger, my fear, my fury—this is what I’ve been wanting, so badly that I almost cry with relief.

This is what I need, and I’m shaking now, because I didn’t think I could have it again. And like a junkie, once the needle is in my vein, I’m just so grateful that all of my other thoughts and plans go out the window, forgotten.

Jared keeps his lips pressed to mine, working over my mouth as I try to keep up. His grip tightens, and I find myself pulled across the floor, directed around behind his desk.

He pulls me away from him by my hair, and I hiss in a breath. He leans close to my ear and whispers in a deep growl, “Should we finish what we started?”

My mouth drops open and I heave out a sigh. He pulls back and looks into my eyes, his now lit with a fiery passion.

“Jared…” I find my voice is thick.

He looks at me. “Just nod or shake your head.”

I find myself nodding, as my heart pounds even faster.

He tugs slightly on my hair, but he doesn’t have to exert much force. I drop to my knees in front of him, thankful for the plush, expensive rug beneath me. I make quick work of his belt. His pants are tented from his erection, which is growing larger by the minute. I slide his zipper down like I’m opening a gift.

“I want to see that red lipstick on my cock,” he says, and I bite my lip with anticipation.

His pants drop to the floor revealing a pair of black boxer briefs straining against his growing cock. My mouth waters as I look up at him, and I try to exude the confidence I felt moments ago, despite now treading into unfamiliar waters. I reach up with the tips of my fingers and pull at the waistband, and he takes my tentativeness for teasing. He drops his head back and sighs, and when I wrap my hand around him, he lets out a low moan.

“Goddammit, Quinn,” he says, now gazing back down at me, a hand brushing against my cheek. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

His dick is a work of art, carved out of warm marble and at least nine inches long. If I had any time to think, or let myself be guided by anything other than sheer lust, I’d be terrified. But at this moment all I can think of is how badly I want to taste it. To taste him. I bring my lips slowly to the head and kiss him, leaving a cherry red lipstick kiss on his olive skin. I gaze up at him from beneath my lashes to see him staring down at me. He’s not going to miss a second of this.

Something about him watching me emboldens me. I want him to see this. I flick my tongue over the red imprint of my lips and hear him hiss, then part my lips and take him into my mouth. I let my tongue trail along the ridged underside of him, listening for him to respond to me, which he does in groans and moans and ragged breaths. I have no idea what I’m doing, but from the way his hand goes to the back of my head, the hiss of air as he sucks in a breath, I know it’s right.

I tease him a little, planting tiny kisses connected by the tip of my tongue up and down the length of him, enjoying the way my lipstick leaves marks all over him, claiming him. I gaze up through hooded eyes as he watches me with an animal fascination. When I see the muscles in his jaw clench and know he can’t take another second, I take him in as deep as I can, leaving a red ring right at the base of him.

It’s shocking to me, but I don’t have that much difficulty with his enormity. It’s like he was meant for me, meant to slide tightly in, and I was meant to open wide and take him.

The feeling of him, the weight in my mouth, makes me moan, which sends him into a spasm of pleasure. I lick and suck and find myself loving it as much as he is. Even from my knees, I am in control of him. I have him, and the thought has me absolutely dripping wet.

I grip him with one hand, moving it in rhythm with my mouth, and after a few minutes he joins in. He starts fucking my mouth with more fervor, and I start wonder what I should do next when he suddenly stills. He pulls back, then beckons me up with the crook of a finger and a devious arched eyebrow.

“Come here,” he says.

I rise, expecting his lips on mine, but instead he lifts a thumb to my bottom lip, swiping at a smudge of red lipstick, all that remains.

“I knew you were a wild one,” he says, that cocky tone back again. The he grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around. A firm hand on the flat of my back bends me over, and my palms fall onto the glass top of his desk. A hand goes to either thigh, and he lifts my skirt slowly, inch by inch, until it’s up around my hips. I feel the hardness of him press against my ass and return the pressure.

“Look at that lovely lace,” he whispers in my ear, and I thank god that the first pair of panties I grabbed this morning were a pair of black lace boy shorts. “Pity what happened to them.”

I start to turn my head, curious about his comment, but then the grip of his hands and the rip of fabric tells me what he means. He tosses the wreckage of lace onto the desk in front of me so that I have to stare at them, a reminder of who’s really in charge.