Read Novel Full Chapter 914: Eziel’s Office (r-18)
Chapter 914: Eziel’s Office (r-18)
He pressed his open mouth directly against the soaked lace of her panties — no more teasing, no more skirting the edges.
The taste hit him first. Thick. Warm. Salt-sweet musk flooding my tongue through wet cotton. My jaw had been aching for minutes but I didn’t care.
His cock was so hard against his zipper it had its own pulse — throbbing in time with hers, leaking enough pre-cum that he could feel the wet spot spreading across the front of his slacks like shame he was proud of.
Somewhere above them, her father was laughing. Faint through six floors of concrete. Gerald Ashworth, celebrating the deal with his son-in-law.
Her husband.
Six floors up. Drinking to their cleverness. Toasting the merger that would make them both richer. Probably slapping Dominic on the back right now. Dominic probably in his thoughts saying something about how lucky he was to have married such a "sharp, dependable girl."
The fabric was drenched beyond salvage — hot, heavy, plastered to her cunt like wet silk, outlining every obscene detail in stark relief.
The pale lace had turned sheer and dark where her arousal saturated it completely: the plump outer lips were visibly swollen, parted naturally now, thick and pillowy, flushed a deep rose that showed through the cotton in shadowed detail.
Between them, her long inner folds — ruffled, delicate, crimson-edged — were pressed flat and glistening, every tiny ridge and crease molded against the barrier like a wet bas-relief.
At the very top, her clit stood rigid and engorged, a swollen, dark-cherry nub the size of a small pearl, protruding shamelessly beyond its hood, throbbing visibly against the lace with every frantic heartbeat.
Her outer lips were grotesquely swollen — fat, pillow-thick cushions flushed violent rose, split open naturally now, framing the soaked strip like greedy bookends.
The inner folds — long, ruffled, meaty petals edged in deep crimson — had been crushed flat against the cotton, every slippery ridge and glistening crease molded in perfect, pornographic relief, twitching and pulsing like they were trying to crawl through the barrier toward his tongue.
Her clit had ballooned into something obscene: a thick, dark-cherry knob the size of a ripe grape, jutting shamelessly past its hood, throbbing so violently it visibly jerked against the lace with every heartbeat — each throb stretching the fabric into a tiny, obscene tent.
Lower, her entrance gaped and winked beneath the stretched cotton — tiny, hungry mouth opening and closing in frantic little spasms, each contraction forcing out another thick rope of creamy girl-cum that the panties could no longer contain.
Pearly strands oozed past the leg holes, ran in slow, glistening rivers down the crack of her ass, and puddled beneath her on the mahogany in dark, syrupy lakes that caught the fluorescent glare and shimmered like spilled sin.
He sucked.
Not politely or teasingly. He sealed his lips over the entire soaked gusset and pulled — hard, brutal, vacuum aggression — drawing the drenched lace inward until it stretched skin-tight over her clit and folds like shrink-wrap.
The fabric groaned under the strain.
Her arousal hit his tongue like a gunshot of heat: thick, salty-sweet musk, syrupy and body-hot, so copious it flooded my mouth in the first heartbeat. He had to swallow — loud, greedy gulps — because there was simply too much to hold.
It coated his tongue, slid down my throat in heavy ropes, leaked from the corners of his lips in warm, sticky trails that dripped off his chin and splattered onto my collarbones, then the carpet below with wet little plaps.
Every swallow tasted like betrayal and tasted like victory at the same time.
He growled into her cunt — low, feral, vibrating straight through the cotton like a subwoofer pressed to her clit.
She screamed — raw, shattered — "Fuuuuck — Eros—!"
Her hips bucked so violently her ass lifted off the desk, thighs clamping my skull like a vice made of hot silk and trembling muscle.
The soft inner flesh quivered uncontrollably against my cheeks; every time I sucked harder the plush meat jumped and twitched, sweat and slick mixing into slippery rivers that ran down my jaw and neck.
"Too much — too — can’t —"
{Oh my god it’s too much — too much suction — my clit feels like it’s gonna burst — she thought, eyes rolling back so hard she saw white flashes behind her lids.}
Her toes curled inside her heels; she could feel every single muscle in her calves flexing and cramping from the strain of trying not to kick him away and pull him closer at the same time.
The edge of the desk was cutting a line into the backs of her thighs. She’d feel it tomorrow. Wouldn’t be able to explain it to anyone. Wouldn’t be able to look at table without remembering how the wood bit into her skin while Eros drank from between her legs.
He kept sucking — deep, rhythmic, obscene pulses— tongue grinding flat and broad over the exact shape of her clit through the barrier, dragging side-to-side in merciless lashes until the swollen nub jumped and jerked like it was being electrocuted.
More cream poured out with every pull — thick, slippery strands that soaked the lace darker, forced it to cling tighter, turned it practically invisible against her pulsing pink flesh.
My knees ached against the thin corporate carpet. Both kneecaps throbbing. Didn’t care. Would not have moved if the building caught fire. Would not have moved if her father himself walked in right now and saw his golden-girl daughter splayed across her own desk with his right-hand man’s tongue buried in her married cunt.
She was losing language.
"Ohgod — ohgod — you’re — you’re sucking my pussy — through my fucking panties —"
{He’s drinking me — fuck — fuck — I’m leaking everywhere — can’t — can’t stop cumming through them —} Her voice cracked into high, fractured whimpers — half sob, half ecstatic giggle — as fresh gushes pulsed out of her fluttering hole straight into my mouth.
{The desk — cold — back sticking to it — hair caught under my shoulder — can’t move it — don’t care — his mouth — god his MOUTH —}
Her mind was fracturing in real time: {This is my office. This is where I give performance reviews. This is where I smiled politely when Dominic proposed in front of the whole team. And right now Eros’s face is buried in my cunt and I’m about to squirt through my underwear like a broken faucet — how am I ever going to sit here again without remembering this? How am I ever going to look my husband in the eye without feeling this exact suction on my clit?}
Her phone buzzed on the desk. Screen lighting up. She caught the name sideways, blurred.
Dominic.
Calling from six floors up.
She didn’t reach for it. Her hands were in Peter’s hair and her body was no longer accepting commands from her brain. The phone buzzed twice more. Went to voicemail. The screen dimmed.
A fresh wave of guilt slammed into her chest — sharp, nauseating — and somehow made her cunt clench even harder.
Another thick spurt jetted against the lace. Peter caught it with a guttural moan that vibrated straight into her soul.
She hated that it turned her on more.
Hated that the thought of Dominic waiting for her upstairs — probably checking his watch, wondering why she was taking so long with "paperwork" with Eros — made her thighs shake harder around Eros’s ears.
His hands abandoned her thighs.
They shot upward — greedy, violent — palms engulfing the heavy, weight of her tits through blouse and bra. Nipples stabbed against his palms like hot little bullets; he found them instantly, pinched down hard — twisting cruelly until she yelped sharp and high, back bowing off the desk.
The family photo on the bookshelf behind her had been turned face-down. She’d done it herself.
Before he’d touched her. While she was locking the door, closing the blinds — she’d walked to that shelf and laid the photo flat. That single gesture told him more about this marriage than any conversation could.
Now it stared at the wall like it was ashamed to watch.