Read Novel Full Chapter 915: Eziel’s POV (R-18)
Chapter 915: Eziel’s POV (R-18)
The pain-pleasure spike shot straight to her core like lightning; her pussy clenched so hard the flutter raced all the way up her spine. A fresh, shameful spurt of slick jetted against the lace — he caught it all with another greedy swallow.
The twist burned — sharp, delicious fire that made her gasp and arch harder at once. Her nipples throbbed under the cruel pinch, aching so sweetly she could feel the hurt blooming into liquid heat between her legs.
Every cruel rotation sent another shameful pulse straight to her clit, made her cunt flutter and weep more, made her hate how alive the pain made her feel. Dominic never hurt her like this. He never dared.
He always asked, always hesitated, always treated her like something fragile that might crack.
Eros didn’t ask. He just claimed.
And her traitorous body answered before guilt could even form the words — nipples tightening further, cunt clenching emptier, thighs trembling with the need for more.
Her blouse was glued to her back with sweat. Every time she arched, the fabric peeled away from the desk with a faint, tacky sound. $400 silk. She’d bought it for the Tokyo conference. Dominic had said she looked professional in it.
The tacky peel felt obscene — like the expensive silk was betraying her too, sticking to her skin and then reluctantly letting go, reminding her exactly how drenched and desperate she’d become on this desk. Guilt stabbed low in her belly, hot and nauseating, right beside the building pleasure.
Could still hear his quiet "You look powerful, baby."
Now the blouse was ruined and she was dripping for another man and the shame only made her wetter, only made her hips roll harder against Peter’s face.
Then he gripped the front of her blouse in both fists. And tore.
Buttons detonated — sharp metallic pings ricocheting across the desk, bouncing off monitors, skittering across the floor like spent shell casings. The fabric ripped open in one savage rrrrrip, hanging in ruined tatters from her elbows as her flushed torso spilled free.
One button hit the window. Tiny tink against forty-one floors of glass. The sound felt final — like something small and innocent being locked away forever. Just like the part of her that still wanted to be the good wife.
Black lace bra barely contained the bouncing weight of her breasts — full, heavy, flushed from collarbones to areolas in deep crimson shame.
He yanked the cups down in the same motion; bra straps snapped off her shoulders, lace dragged below the heavy globes so they bounced free — nipples dark-rose and painfully stiff, puckered into tight little peaks that begged to be bitten.
The sudden exposure made her gasp — cool office air hitting sweat-damp skin felt like ice on fire.
Her nipples tightened even harder, almost painfully; goosebumps raced down her arms and across her belly to her wrists where the ruined blouse bunched and scratched — and she couldn’t shake it free because her hands wouldn’t release his hair.
The cold air slapped her bare tits like a stranger’s hand — shocking, humiliating, exhilarating. Her nipples drew up so tight they hurt, throbbed in time with her racing heart.
She felt obscene, obscene and powerful, obscene and worthless all at once.
Her breasts bounced shamelessly for Eros and the vulnerability flooded her with heat so intense her cunt spasmed emptily.
"Yes — yes — rip it — fuck —" she gasped, voice wrecked with reverence. "I love it — I love when you fucking lose it — love when you just take me — like I’m your dirty little office whore — ruin me — Eros — please —"
The filthy words tore out of her throat raw and reverent, tasting like something she’d swallowed years ago and never digested.
Once they were free she felt lighter, dirtier, truer. Her cheeks burned with the heat of her own voice; her cunt answered instantly — another thick, shameful gush soaking the lace, pulsing straight into his waiting mouth.
Saying it out loud felt like crossing a line she could never uncross, and the terror of that only made her need sharper, only made her grind harder against his face.
Her hands flew to his hair — fingers twisting brutally at the roots — yanking his face so hard against her soaked crotch she nearly smothered him.
Her back arched off the desk, bare tits thrust upward, nipples rigid and gleaming under the cold office lights, chest flushed from throat to navel, soft belly jumping with every panting breath, ribs flaring wide as she fought not to scream loud enough for the night janitor to hear.
She could smell herself now — thick, musky, feminine — and she could smell him too: his cologne mixed with the sharp tang of his own arousal, the faint salt of his sweat. The combination made her dizzy.
Beneath the cologne, beneath the sweat — something primal, dangerous, male in a way Dominic never was. Breathing him in felt like inhaling smoke; it went straight to her head, straight to her cunt, made her clit throb harder, made her thighs shake more violently.
The scent alone was enough to make her feel owned, marked, ruined — and she hated how much she craved it.
He still didn’t tear the panties aside.
He just devoured her through them — sucking in deep, pulsing pulls that drew the lace inward until it molded to every swollen fold and throbbing clit like second skin. Tongue lashed her clit through the cotton in rapid, vicious flicks — side-to-side, circles, up-and-down flurries — until the engorged nub swelled impossibly bigger, jumping and jerking against his tongue like it was trying to punch through the fabric entirely.
Every flick sent white-hot sparks behind her eyes; her vision narrowed to black edges. Her pulse hammered everywhere — clit, nipples, throat, wrists — a frantic drumbeat she couldn’t escape. Her legs shook so badly her heels kept slipping against the desk edge; she hooked them behind his shoulders just to stay anchored.
Her left heel dug into his shoulder blade. Sharp. Pointed.
Thick ropes of cream kept pouring — unstoppable — running in steady, warm rivers down her inner thighs, pooling under her ass in glossy black lakes on the polished wood, dripping off the edge of the desk in slow, obscene plip-plip-plips.
She babbled — voice shredded, worshipful, broken: "Suck it — suck my dripping cunt — through my slutty little panties — god you’re so fucking greedy — love how you drink me — love how you need it — need me — fuck — Eros— don’t stop — don’t you fucking dare stop — make me cream through them — make me soak your fucking face — please —"
Her own voice sounded distant, wrecked, someone else’s — someone shameless and already broken. Tears burned behind her eyes from pure overstimulation; one slipped free and rolled hot down her temple, tickling her ear in the middle of the chaos.
The absurdity of crying while he sucked her clit through lace only made her cunt clench harder, only made the pleasure sharper, only made her want to shatter completely.
He was going to make her come untouched — just mouth and suction and cruelty — and the realization hit her like a second orgasm building. She hadn’t come this hard.
Her thighs shook violently around his ears — muscles jumping, soft flesh quivering, slick and sweat turning her inner thighs into a slippery, trembling trap.
His ears rang from the pressure. Her thighs clamped his skull in perfect pulses — each squeeze matching her heartbeat, each one forcing me deeper, each one making her clench harder around nothing.
He chuckled between suffocated between the married thighs of a woman who was about to come screaming another man’s name.
And I’d go smiling.
Her entrance fluttered and gaped beneath the lace — visible, desperate clenches that forced fresh gushes straight into his mouth in rhythmic, pulsing waves.
Her clit throbbed against his tongue like a frantic second heart — swollen to bursting, hypersensitive, jerking with every hard suck, every cruel flick, every possessive pull.
And still he refused to rip the last shred away.
Because this — her blouse in rags, tits bouncing bare and flushed, cunt spasming and gushing through drenched lace, voice cracking with how badly she craved his loss of control, dripping rivers onto corporate mahogany, trembling on the razor’s edge of begging, tears streaking her cheeks, heels hooked behind his back, thighs shaking like she was having a seizure — this was perfection.
She was exactly where he wanted her: filthy, exposed, leaking, worshipping, dying for him to finally tear the barrier and bury himself balls-deep in the spasming, cream-soaked heaven he’d spent the last ten minutes torturing.
All she had to do now... was break completely and beg for it. Out loud. Like the desperate little office slut she’d become on her own fucking desk.
And she was so close — so fucking close — to doing exactly that.