Her Lover’s Stubble Burns in the Boardroom

“Don’t you fucking close them. Look at me while I eat you.”

His mouth was already there. Hot. Mean. Sealed over her cunt like he’d been starving for months and had finally chewed through the leash. Ruby’s spine bowed off the conference table. The polished wood burned under her shoulder blades. His tongue dragged a flat, greedy stripe up through the slick and the sound she made cracked in her throat, half gasp, half his name, useless.

Jax growled into her. She felt it land in her clit, a low buzz that jerked her hips against his face. His hands were bruises waiting to happen, one clamped on her hip, the other shoving her thigh wider until the tendon screamed and she let it. She didn’t fight the spread. She chased it. Heels skidded on lacquer. Her skirt was a ruined twist at her waist. Panties somewhere on the carpet, yanked off with his teeth in them, the snap of the elastic still stinging her skin. Blouse ripped open to the waist, two buttons gone the same way, nothing under it. She’d skipped the bra under the blazer for the pitch, and he’d found that out with his teeth before he’d even gotten her flat.

God. God. His tongue pushed in. Thick. Hungry. Not teasing. He fucked her with it, nose grinding her clit, breath harsh and wet against her, and every time she tried to lift her hips he pinned her harder, like the table was the only thing allowed to hold her and even that was on loan. Her pulse slammed in her ears. Somewhere past the locked door the air handler droned and an elevator chimed and none of it got through. There was nothing but the slick, sucking work of his mouth and the low words he kept shoving into her between licks.

He was loud about it. That was what undid her. He didn’t eat her like a man with manners. He swallowed. She heard it, the thick wet click of his throat working, and then his tongue was back, flattened, dragging up from her ass to her clit in one slow filthy pull that smeared her own wetness over everything. She was running. She could feel it. Slick sliding down the crease of her thigh, pooling under her on the wood, cooling, going tacky, and he chased it with his mouth like he resented the table for taking any of it.

His stubble burned. High inside her thighs, the tender skin he’d shoved open, every turn of his jaw rasped it raw, and the sting fed straight into the heat of his tongue until she couldn’t tell where the hurt stopped and the good started. He dragged her thighs up, one and then the other, and hooked them over his shoulders so her heels left the wood and hung down his back. Sweat had slicked his shirt and her skin both; her calves kept slipping, skidding down his spine, and he kept hauling them back up without lifting his face, fingers digging into the backs of her knees, impatient, like she was being careless with something that belonged to him.

He sucked her clit. Hard. Let it go with a wet pop that sounded indecent in the empty room, then went back in with his tongue, circling, flicking, driving her up and then sliding down to fuck into her again the second she got too close. Mess everywhere. His chin. His mouth. The thick glisten on his upper lip when he dragged his face across her to bite the soft crease of her hip.

“This,” he said, and bit the inside of her thigh hard enough that she yelped, “is mine. You hear me? That little gasp. Mine. This drip. Fuck, Ruby, you’re soaking my chin. Mine. He put his hand on your waist like he had a right. Like I’d let him walk out of that room with his fingers still warm from you.”

Her waist. For one half-second she felt the ghost of it, a palm resting where it shouldn’t, and then Jax’s mouth was on her again and the ghost burned off like nothing. All she knew was the heat of him and the way her body answered without permission, clenching, flooding, opening. Her fingers found his hair and fisted. Pulled. He snarled and sucked her clit into his mouth, ruthless, and her teeth clamped so hard her jaw ached.

“Jax. Fuck. Too much.”

“Not enough.” He licked her open again, messy, loud. Two fingers shoved in without warning, curled, his other hand clamping down on her hip to keep her flat, and she arched so hard the table creaked. “You don’t get to tell me too much. Not after you stood there and let him touch you. Not after you looked at me like you wanted me to do something about it.” His fingers pumped. Wet. Brutal. Every stroke came back shining and pushed in louder. “You wanted this. Say it.”

She couldn’t. Her mouth was open and nothing smart came out, only breath and a broken moan when his tongue joined his fingers and he worked her like he was trying to crawl inside. Teeth grazed. Not careful. She felt the catch of them on swollen flesh and it went through her ugly and good, a flinch that turned into a grind before she could stop it. Her thighs shook around his head. He didn’t ease off. That one hand on her hip gripped harder, fingerprints sinking into the meat of it, pinning her open to his mouth like leverage, like he could hold her still enough to drag the orgasm out of her by force.

It hit wrong and perfect, too fast, ripped up from her gut. She came on his tongue with a raw, shocked cry, pulsing around his fingers, soaking him. He didn’t stop. He licked through it, greedy, chasing every twitch, every aftershock, groaning like her climax was something he could swallow. Her hands let go of his hair and scrabbled at the table. A folder slid. Pens hit the floor. She was shaking and he was still eating her, still talking into her cunt like the words belonged there.

“Again. You’re going to give me another one. This body’s mine to wring out. He doesn’t get this. Nobody gets this face. Look at you. Wrecked already and I haven’t even…” He pulled his fingers free, glistening, and shoved them into his mouth, eyes locked on hers. There was nothing soft in them. Pupils gone huge and black, a sheen of her across his mouth, a muscle jumping in his jaw like he was holding back a bite. “Taste what you did. Taste what you saved for me.”

She was still gasping when he shrugged her legs off his shoulders. They slid, heavy, knees knocking the edge, feet finding nothing, and he surged up over her. Mouth crashed into hers. Teeth clashed. She tasted herself, salt and heat and the sharp edge of him, and she bit his lower lip because she had to put the violence somewhere. He laughed into it, short and ragged, and kissed her harder, tongue fucking her mouth the way it had just fucked her cunt. His shirt hung half open. She got her hands under it and raked his back. He hissed. Good. She wanted marks. She wanted him as ruined as she felt.

He hauled her upright by the arms. Not gentle. One knee hit the table, then the other, the whole thing groaning as he climbed up after her, trousers shoved down just far enough, bunched at his thighs, and he dragged her across the wood by the hips until she was on her knees too, chest to chest, the two of them kneeling in the middle of a boardroom table like it was a bed. Face to face. His cock jutted between them, thick, flushed dark, already wet at the tip, and the sight of it punched her lungs empty. She reached. He caught her hips first.

“On me,” he ordered, voice shredded. “Grind. I want to feel how wet you are before I split you open.”

He yanked her astride. Her knees landed outside his, spread wide around his thighs where he knelt upright, and she dropped her weight onto him, cunt sliding down the hard line of his cock where it stood trapped against his stomach. The first slide was obscene. Slick, hot, the fat head nudging her clit and dragging through the mess he’d made. She moaned into his mouth. He groaned like it hurt. Their foreheads knocked. Breath tangled. She rolled her hips and he met her, a desperate kneeling grind, nothing inside her yet, just starving friction, his cock pinned between their bodies and sliding through her folds with every frantic rock.

The table was too hard under her knees. The bone ached. She chased the drag of him anyway, the thick ridge under the head catching her clit on every pass, the wet click of her sliding on him filling the dead room. His hands were everywhere, bruising her ass, spreading her so she smeared more of herself along his length, then one palm slamming up her spine to fist her hair and yank her head back so he could mouth her throat. Teeth. Suction. A bite that would show above her collar if she wasn’t careful, and the thought made her grind harder, meaner, chasing the sting.

Every drag left her slicker. She could feel it coating him, the whole length of him shining with her each time she rose and he slid back through, could feel his precum smearing her belly where the head bumped her skin. He let her hair go to grab her ass with both hands and bucked up into the slide, the shaft grinding her clit flat, and she dropped her face into his shoulder and sobbed, short and high, teeth sunk into him through the shirt.

“That’s it,” he rasped against her ear. “Use me. Get yourself stupid on it. Feel that? That’s mine rubbing you open. Your gasps are mine. This shake in your thighs. Mine. He touched your waist and thought he was bold. I’m going to fuck the memory of his hand out of your skin.”

The words came at her in pieces. His voice buzzed against the side of her head, syllables breaking apart under the slap of her hips meeting his, mine and waist and skin arriving as heat more than sound. What she knew was the slick slide, the way his cock throbbed against her and her cunt clenched on nothing, aching, empty, furious about it. She reached between them. Wrapped her fingers around him. Hot. Thick enough that her grip didn’t close. The skin moved loose over the hard pulse underneath and the head was wet, slippery, leaking under her thumb. She stroked once, messy with her own slick, and he bucked so hard their teeth clicked again.

“Ruby. Fuck. Don’t.”

“Then put it in,” she gasped, and didn’t recognize her own voice. “Stop talking and… Jax, I need…”

He didn’t make her finish. He shifted his grip, hitched her up by the hips with a strength that took her balance out from under her, and lined himself up at her entrance. The head caught. Pushed. She was soaked and still the stretch burned, thick and relentless, and she sank because he pulled her down and because she drove herself onto him in the same starved second. They both made a sound, his a broken curse, hers a high shocked keen, as he filled her in one deep, bruising drop.

Full. Too full. Perfect. She clenched around him and he snarled, forehead pressed to hers, and his hips were already moving under her, shoving up before she’d even finished taking him. The grind turned into a fuck with no clean line between them. Kneeling, face to face, his cock driving up as she slammed down, the wet smack of their bodies loud and shameless. Her nails dug into his shoulders. His fingers dented her hips. Every thrust knocked a moan out of her and he swallowed them, or bit them off her mouth, or growled them back at her like proof.

“Listen to you,” he said, breath hot, thrusts short and vicious. “That sound. That’s mine. Say whose cock you’re dripping on.”

“Yours,” she choked. The word tore loose. “Yours. Jax. Harder.”

He gave it to her. Both arms banded around her, one across her back, the other low on her hips, hauling her down onto every upward thrust with nothing held back. The angle punched deep. Her breath locked. Her nails bit crescents into his shoulders. Her clit dragged against the base of him with every crash of their hips and the pleasure stacked, mean and bright, no room left in her to think. Sweat slicked them. His chest slid against her bare breasts, the torn blouse bunched back at her ribs, and his mouth found a nipple, sucked hard, teeth grazing, and she cried out and rode him faster, chasing the edge like it might vanish if she slowed.

It wasn’t enough. She felt it in the way his rhythm kept stuttering, catching, his grip skidding on her sweat-slick hips. He swore against her skin, pulled out in a rush that wrenched a sob out of her at the loss, and shoved her backward off his lap. She went over, ass hitting the wood, then the rest of her, shoulders slapping down flat so hard her lungs seized. He didn’t follow her down. He went the other way, one hand on the table, swinging his legs off and dropping to the floor, and the trousers caught him at the thighs. He staggered, swore, shoved them down past his knees in one furious drag, and before she’d gotten a breath back he’d caught her by the hips and hauled.

She slid. The polish gave her nothing to grab. Her shoulders skidded, her hair dragged, and the edge of the table came up under her thighs fast, then faster, and then it was behind her knees and her legs went over. Her stomach lurched. Gravity grabbed her shins and dropped them and her heels swung into nothing, dead weight, dangling, the hard lip of the wood biting into the backs of her thighs where her skin was still slick and raw from his jaw. Cold. The edge was cold after the heat of him. Her own wetness was cooling on her inner thighs, tacky where it had run, and the air hit her open cunt like an insult.

Then his hips wedged in. Hot. Solid. Shoving her thighs apart from below. He hooked one arm under her knee and lifted, hitching that leg high against his ribs so her ass skidded to the brink, the other leg left to hang, and his free hand fisted around himself. The head of his cock found her. Didn’t push. Dragged. A slow, deliberate slide up through her folds, over her clit, back down, smearing them both, the blunt heat of him nudging at her entrance and then away again while her hanging leg trembled and she couldn’t do a thing about it. No leverage. No floor. Just the wood under her shoulder blades and his arm under her knee and his fist guiding the throb of him right there, right at the mouth of her, soaking.

“Hold on,” he said, and it wasn’t a request.

She grabbed the edge. Knuckles white. He let go of himself, got his other arm under her other knee, and drove in.

Deep. Deeper than the kneel. The angle opened her wide and seated him to the hilt in one ferocious thrust, and the sound she made didn’t belong in a boardroom. Her legs swung, helpless, and he used that, used the hang of her, the lack of leverage, his hands locked under her knees spreading her while he fucked her in long, punishing strokes that jolted the whole table. Wood groaned. Her body took him and clenched and flooded and she could do nothing but hold the edge and take it, mouth open, eyes wet, skin burning everywhere he touched.

“Look at you,” he gritted, hips snapping, the slap of him driving in loud enough to echo off the glass. “Hanging off my table. Taking me like you were built for it. He doesn’t get to see this. Nobody does. This…” A thrust, deep, grinding, his pelvis crushing her clit. “This face. This shake. These pretty fucking sounds. Mine.”

She half-heard it. Her pulse was in her skull, in her cunt, everywhere at once, and his words dropped syllables every time he bottomed out. She felt him everywhere instead, the stretch, the heat, the brutal rhythm, sweat dripping from his jaw onto her chest, the bite of his grip where he held her open. Her arms trembled on the edge. The lip of the table dug a hard line into the backs of her thighs and she knew it would bruise and she didn’t ask him to ease up. Then he dropped her knees to grab her hips instead, and the second her legs were free she hooked what she could of them around his waist and dragged him deeper, greedy, and his rhythm came apart.

The pace broke. Fast. Chaotic. No rhythm left, just need, his hips slamming off-tempo, his grip sliding on the sweat at her hips and clamping back down harder. She met him as much as the hang of her body allowed, crying out on every drive, the pressure in her gut winding so tight it felt like something about to tear. He came down over her. Folded her. One hand slapped flat on the wood beside her head, the other still clamped on her hip, and his mouth found her ear. Breath ragged. Teeth on the lobe. Words low and vicious and shaking.

“Come on my cock. Now. Let me feel it. Let me own it.”

She broke. The orgasm went through her like a dropped weight, muscle locking, cunt clamping down on him in hard, rhythmic pulses, a scream punched out of her that she tried to bite off and couldn’t, her whole body seizing against the wood. Toes curled on nothing. She sobbed his name and kept coming, each clench dragging on him, her thighs jerking around his waist, slick running out around him with every pulse, and he didn’t slow. He fucked her through it, groaning at the grip of her, chasing his own edge with savage, shortening thrusts.

Then he buried himself to the root and held there, shaking, and his mouth was at her ear, fierce, barely sound, the claim punched out of him on the same breath as the first hot pulse inside her. “Nobody else touches you. Nobody else makes you look like this. Not him. Not anyone. You’re mine. Fuck. Ruby.” His hips jerked, a broken groan torn out of his chest as he held her pinned on his cock and emptied himself.

She felt every throb. Felt the way he shook. Felt his forehead drop to her shoulder and his breath tear itself ragged against her skin while her own aftershocks kept clenching around him, milking, involuntary, too sensitive and still not letting go.

Silence rushed in around the sound of them breathing. Harsh. Uneven. The room smelled like sex and sweat and the faint chemical tang of table polish. Her fingers let go of the edge. Her hands lay open on the wood, sprawled at the lip of it. He pushed up off her, slow, one hand peeling her legs from around his waist, and the second he let them go her thighs dropped, dead weight over the edge, trembling so hard her heels knocked against the table’s side. Sweat cooled on her stomach. Her cunt fluttered around him, oversensitive, and every tiny shift of his hips made her gasp.

He didn’t pull out.

His hands slid. One clamped her hip. The other spread wide over her lower belly like he could hold the mess of them inside her by force. He stayed buried. Softening slow. Refusing the inch. He bent and set his teeth against her collarbone. Not a bite. Just there. Breath hot. Jaw still hard.

“Stay,” he said. Rough. Quiet. His thumb found the bruise he’d left on her hip and pressed until she hissed. “I’m not done with you. You don’t move until I say. He doesn’t get to have even the aftermath. This shake. Still mine.”

Ruby stared at the ceiling tiles. Her pulse was still in her throat. Her body wouldn’t stop. Legs hanging. Heels swinging. The edge of the table cutting into her thighs. Her hand found his wrist where it pinned her belly to the wood and she locked her fingers around it. Tight. Nails in. His grip didn’t loosen. Hers didn’t either.