Mentor Takes Charge and Sets the Tempo

I drove my teeth into the hinge of Stephanie’s jaw, hand fisted in her hair, and she whimpered and clawed at my shirt. The sound made my cock jerk against my fly. Not pretty. Not polite. The kind of broken little noise that told me she’d let Rick put his mouth on her last night and I was going to chew it out of her skin.

“Say it,” I snarled against the mark, shoving her backward until her spine hit the hotel dresser. Perfume bottles rattled. Her nails dug crescents into my shoulders through the cotton, stinging, perfect. “Say whose cunt this is before Linton gets to say it at noon. Say it before I take it like I own the deed.”

“Jasper—”

I slapped the inside of her thigh hard enough to print my hand there, then shoved the white silk of her dress up around her waist. No panties. Of course not. She’d come to me wet, ruined, and still pretending this wasn’t going to detonate every contract we’d ever signed. I dragged two fingers through her, filthy-slick, and shoved them into her mouth.

“Taste that. That’s you after Rick. That’s you after Linton’s little rehearsal dinner toasts. That’s you about to walk down an aisle in eight hours and smile at three hundred people who think you’re clean.” I fucked my fingers over her tongue until she gagged around them, eyes glassy. “Swallow. Then tell me who you belong to when you’re dripping like this.”

She sucked. Obscene. Wet. Twenty-two years between us and she still looked at me like I was the only man who’d ever taught her how to be used. Her fiancé was waiting in a suite three floors down. Her kids were asleep in their grandmother’s house, little suits pressed for a wedding that was going to be a crime scene by sunrise if anyone found us. I knew it. She knew it. I got both hands under her ass and threw her up onto the edge of the dresser, bottles going over, then dragged my zip down and shoved my trousers to my hips, cock out, hard enough to hurt.

“Where did he touch you?” She shook her head. I found it myself—the soft underside of her left breast, where I’d seen the mark through her blouse this morning—and bit down through the silk until she screamed. “Say his name.” “Rick—” “Again.” “R-Rick—” I shoved my fingers back past her teeth and made her choke on the second syllable.

“Jasper, the firm—if they—”

“If they what? Fire us? Sue us? Put our names in the same sentence as ‘affair’ and ‘breach’ and ‘the bride fucked her mentor the night before’?” I stepped in between her thighs, lined up, and drove into her in one brutal stroke that knocked a grunt out of me and a scream out of her. Tight. Hot. Clenching around me like she was trying to keep me and throw me out at the same time. “Too late, sweetheart. You let Rick in. You said yes to Linton. Now you’re going to take me until you forget both their names.”

She gasped, high and wrecked, hands shoving up under the back of my shirt, nails raking bare skin hard enough to draw blood. I liked it. I wanted the evidence. I wanted her to feel me tomorrow when she lifted her arms for the veil. I grabbed her hips and yanked her onto every inch, grinding deep, overwriting. My mouth found her throat again, biting, sucking a bruise where the necklace would sit. Possessive. Ugly. Mine.

“You let him fuck you,” I said against her pulse, voice raw. “Rick. Last night. I can still picture it. His hands on these tits. His come dripping out of you. And then you came to me smelling like him and expected me to be gentle?” I pulled almost out and rammed back in, the dresser cracking into the wall. “No. I’m going to fill you so full you leak me down your thighs in the church. I’m going to leave teeth in you Linton will see when he tries to kiss you.”

“The kids,” she whispered, shaking, rolling her hips to meet me like a whore who’d signed her own ruin. “Jasper, if this gets out—the photos, the board, their school—”

“Then you should’ve kept your legs closed.” I said it mean and I said it true and I still couldn’t stop. I hooked her knees over my elbows and folded her open, driving in at an angle that made her cry out every time I bottomed out. Skin slapping. Wet. “You should’ve married him last year. You should’ve never let me put you on your knees in the copy room. You should’ve never come here tonight with Rick’s fingerprints still on you.”

I set the pace and I locked it. Not frantic. Not kind. A metronome. In. Hold. Out. In. Same depth. Same snap of hips. Same grind against her clit on every stroke. She tried to speed me up, tried to rock, tried to beg. I let her legs drop, got my right hand around her throat and my left clamped on her hip, and kept the rhythm exact.

“Don’t you fucking rush me,” I told her, voice gone low and even. “You’re going to come on this cock at my tempo or you’re not coming at all. Feel that? That’s me erasing him. That’s me erasing the vows you haven’t even said yet. That’s me ruining the rest of your life one stroke at a time.”

She moaned, long and low, head tipping back over my grip on her throat into nothing, the mirror two feet behind her and no use to her at all. The sound of it—wet, broken, hungry—made my balls draw up. I didn’t change. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. In. Hold. Out. The dresser knocked a steady beat into the wall. Her breathing snagged, then matched me. In. Hold. Out. Her lips started moving with it, no sound, just the shape of the count. I watched her eyes lose focus. Watched her mouth fall open around my name.

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Don’t think about the contracts. Don’t think about the press. Don’t think about your son asking why Mommy’s crying in the bathroom tomorrow. Just take it. Just get fucked like you were built for this and nothing else.”

Her cunt fluttered, then clamped, then started that rhythmic squeeze that meant she was going over whether she wanted to or not. I kept the same merciless count. Didn’t chase it. Didn’t give her more. Just that same deep, even, brutal stroke until she broke on it, sobbing, shaking, coming so hard she soaked my cock and the front of my trousers, chanting my name over and over.

I didn’t let her down. I kept the rhythm through it, forcing her through the peak and into the oversensitive wreckage on the other side, talking the whole time, filthy and steady.

“Good. Again. You’re not done. You’re going to come on me until you can’t walk down that aisle without feeling me. Until Linton’s first dance is you wincing because I rewrote you. Until Rick hears about the wedding and knows I was in you last.”

She came a second time like that, both hands locked around the forearm at her throat, nails sunk in, a wrecked “please, Jasper, we can’t, the firm, the kids, noon—” spilling out of her even as her body milked me. I still didn’t speed up. I let the metronome carry me over the edge with her, burying myself to the root and pumping her full in long, pulsing waves, groaning into her throat, biting down again as I filled her.

The second the last spurt left me, the high died.

Just gone. Nothing underneath it.

I was still inside her, still pinning her to the edge of the dresser by the throat and the hip, come starting to leak around my cock, and the room was suddenly too bright, too quiet, too real. The white silk was shoved up under her ribs, stained dark at the hem where she’d dripped on it. The clock on the nightstand said 3:41 a.m. She was due at the church at noon. Photographers. Her father. The board members who still thought I was the man who signed off on her promotion because she earned it.

Stephanie’s breathing changed. Same ragged pull, but higher now, thinner, catching at the top like she couldn’t get it all the way into her lungs. Her body went rigid around me. Her hands came off my arm one finger at a time, like she’d just realized what they were holding.

“Oh—” A gulp of air. “Oh God. Oh God, Jasper, the—my kids. My kids are—” Another. Faster. “Linton’s three floors—he’s right—the lobby, somebody in the lobby, I know somebody—I can’t—I can’t—”

I didn’t say anything.

I let go of her throat. I pulled out. The sound of it was wet and loud in the quiet. My cock was already going soft, and I stood there with it hanging out of my trousers and my hands starting to shake. My come slid down her thigh onto the wood. Evidence. Her son’s suit was hanging on the back of a door across town, pressed, waiting for a morning that wasn’t going to happen.

Without the dresser knocking, the room had no sound in it except her breathing, ugly and fast, and the second hand on the nightstand clock.

She slid off the dresser on shaking legs, dress still bunched at her ribs, the neckline dragged crooked off one shoulder where I’d hauled at it. Bite marks blooming purple on her throat, on that bared shoulder, on the underside of her breast where the silk had slipped and left it out in the light. My handprint on her thigh. She looked at me like I’d just pissed on the only clean thing she had left. I looked back and felt the same.

Years. Years of leaving the room. Hanging up. Not taking the second drink. And I’d torched all of it in half an hour on a hotel dresser because some prick named Rick got there before me.

I couldn’t even reach for her. The dopamine was gone. All that was left was the wreckage, the clock, and the sick, certain knowledge that noon was coming whether we moved or not.