“Sure. I’ll be right there.” I stand, smoothing down my dress. The intercom disconnects with a thump. “I moved the creamer on him,” I joke. “I’ll be right back, gentlemen.”
I feel their gazes on my back as I exit and weave through the people standing in the halls on their lunch break. Once I enter my office, I see his doors are open.
A feeling of anticipation lingers in the air. I approach the doorway and find him standing next to his desk, his tie loose around his neck, his hair ruffled. His jaw is set as his gaze sweeps over me.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks.
“I was still taking notes. I was doing my job.”
“You were fingering yourself.”
“You don’t know that.”
He storms towards me, grabbing the edge of the door and slamming it behind me, locking it with a flourish. “If I touch you now, will you be wet?”
“Like that has anything to do with if I was touching myself or not,” I say. “Just looking at you—”
I’m against the wall, the force causing the painting over the love seat to shake. His lips are all over mine, my jaw, down my neck to my chest.
“Oh, God,” I moan, soaking in the way his hands roam my body—my arms, my cheeks, down my chest and then over to my sides. In a swift motion, his hands are palming my ass and lifting me.
Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his waist as he picks me up, pinning me against the wall. He kisses me senseless and I go right back at him, working frantically at the buttons of his shirt.
I’m whirled in a circle as he walks me backwards. I jerk his shirt free from his pants and fumble for the last button. Before I can get it undone, he drops me on the loveseat.
Lying back, my breathing all over the place, I look up at him. His hair is sticking up everywhere, his jacket half off, his shirt completely askew like he was just mugged. It’s hot as hell.
He gets on his knees, dragging my left leg and tossing it over his shoulder. A grin lifts the corner of his lips.
“You need a release, baby?” he asks.
My legs are spread, my pussy wide open for him. It seems like I should care, that I should feel some sort of self-consciousness, but I don’t. I just don’t.
“Your dad and brother are in the conference room,” I say as clearly as I can.
“You don’t think Ford knows what’s happening in here?” He drags a finger up the inside of my thigh. “He’ll keep Dad busy.” His finger drifts over my opening, touching it just lightly enough that I shiver. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
I can’t answer him. I can’t even look at him. All I can do is lie back, my dress straddling my waist, and wait for any touch he’ll give me.
I don’t have to wait long. His palm lies flat along my stomach, his thumb finding my clit. The push, steady and firm, is enough to almost make me yelp.
“Shhh . . .” he snickers. “It’s the middle of the day, Ms. Sims. You don’t want an audience, do you?”
“I don’t care,” I say, bucking against his hand.
“No, but I do,” he replies. “I don’t want some fuckhead making copies to hear you moan my name. And you will be moaning my name.”
He swirls the pad of his thumb over me before grabbing my hips and planting his face between my legs.
“Ah!” I moan as he sucks me into his mouth. “Oh, God, Graham.”
“Told you.”
I think I’m going to melt against his face, completely lose control from the contact of his tongue parting me. When I look down and see that he’s watching me, I nearly die.
Grabbing his hair, I pop myself up as much as I can and watch this man’s face between my legs. “Do I taste good?”
He hums against my opening before flicking his tongue against me. The sensation is incredible.
He slides his hands under me, lifting my hips so my pussy is angled right at his mouth. I can hear him sucking me, lapping against me, stroking me with his tongue. Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he inserts a finger, twisting it in a “come here” fashion.
“Graham,” I groan, short of breath. My hands weave through his hair, pushing his face into me.
Another finger goes in, the rigidity of the digits such a contrast to the softness of his mouth. He strokes in and out of me, this powerful man in a suit kneeling under me.
“You like that?” he asks, drawing his fingers out and shoving them back in. “Does that make you want my cock?”
“Yes,” I moan, begging for more friction.
“Too bad.”
I want to argue, to beg him to undress and climb on top of me, but I can’t form words as his strokes bring me higher and higher.
“The next time I tell you not to do something, fucking listen.”
“I just . . . I didn’t. I . . .” My head falls back, my hands finding my breasts and cupping them together. “Oh. My. God.”
“Be quiet or I’ll stop.”
Biting down on my lip, my back arched, I feel myself start to near the edge of no return.
“You drive me fucking crazy,” he says, his tone completely controlled. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Do this to me,” I beg. “Please.”
He smirks. “I’m going to make you come now. I’m going to watch you completely lose control on my hand. I want you to remember who controls this, got it?”
He’s purposefully not getting me off, holding back just enough so I can’t come until he says so.
“Graham,” I groan, my insides clenching, trying desperately to get enough friction to burst apart. “Please.”
“Who is in control of this, Mallory?”
“You,” I bite out.
“Who says when you come?”
“You fucking do,” I huff, spreading my legs farther. “Now do it.”
“You take orders pitifully,” he says, but gives in, and within four strokes, has me coming all over him.
Graham
LINCOLN’S PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT IS IN my hands. It takes all of three seconds to read it.
A heavy, bold X strikes through each page with an arrow indicating I should turn the document over on the last one. I do and see this scratched out in Lincoln’s handwriting:
I, Lincoln Fucking Landry, will not make my girl sign some stupid piece of paper letting her know if she leaves me, she can’t have my money. Truth is, if she goes, she may as well take all the cash I worked so hard for because who would give a shit at that point? (And I have you. You can make me more.)
I know you’re making that face you make when you think I’m making a really bad choice (worse than the time I used duct tape to keep the braids Sienna put in the dog’s hair in place), but I got this. Relax. I mean, if I’m wrong, you will be right and we all know how much that makes you happy.
Thanks for looking out for me, G. You’ll be my best man, right?
I don’t know whether to laugh or call him and rip his ass. This is utterly stupid, to not protect your interests when combining your life with someone else’s. But it’s Lincoln, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m not entirely surprised he’s going this route.