Pinned by Rival in the Office Closet
Badges skittered across the linoleum like confetti as the crate of lanyards exploded off the shelf, plastic clips clattering into the dark corners of the closet while Kian shoved me back hard into the metal racks. My ass hit the edge of a supply crate and I gasped, already yanking at his belt because fuck waiting, because his mouth was already on mine and my filthy mouth just wouldn’t shut up. “That was too close,” I panted against his lips, half a laugh, half a moan. “You almost had your hand on my back in front of the client, Kian—” His hand actually was on my back now, fisting hard in my blouse, dragging the collar askew, and I didn’t care anymore who’d almost seen what. “God, look at you. Look at these arms. You could’ve thrown me over your shoulder and carried me out of that meeting and I would’ve let you—”
“Keep going,” he growled, dragging his mouth down my jaw, “and see what happens.”
“That’s exactly what I want to happen.” I got a hand under his shirt, felt the flat hard plane of his stomach jump under my palm, my other hand already working the leather of his belt half-loose. “That control you walk around with all day, that infuriating calm—I want to watch it break. I want to be the thing that breaks it.”
It broke. His grip closed around both my wrists before I could finish the job, wrenching my hands off his belt and up in one motion, pinning them flat against the cold metal shelving above my head, high enough that I had to rise onto my toes to keep the ache out of my shoulders. The half-open belt hung useless at his hips, forgotten. The shelf’s edge bit into my knuckles. Cans of something rattled at my ear. He used his other hand to shove my skirt up in one violent drag of fabric.
“You want to watch me break,” he said, voice low and rough right against my ear, “then hold still and watch.”
He shoved my panties aside and drove two thick fingers straight into me, no warm-up, no mercy, and I would have screamed if he hadn’t crushed my face into his shoulder in the same instant, muffling the sound into damp cotton and the salt-heat of his skin. My toes barely scraped the floor. My whole weight hung from that one iron grip on my wrists, arms trembling, shoulders straining, and the helplessness of it—the fact that I could not get down, could not get away, could only take whatever pace he decided to give me—sent a fresh gush of heat rushing down between my legs.
“Fuck—yes, right there, just like that,” I gasped into his shoulder, voice smashed to nothing by the fabric. “The way you’re holding me up like it costs you nothing—God, Kian, your grip alone could ruin me—”
“Keep talking,” he said, and curled his fingers deep, finding the spot that made my whole body jolt, “I like hearing you fall apart over something as simple as my hands.”
The shelving rattled with every twitch of my hips. My wrists burned where his fingers wrapped them, that ache spreading slow and hot up into my forearms, and I welcomed it, chased it, rocked myself into his palm as much as the pin would allow. He worked those fingers filthy and deliberate, curling on the upstroke while his thumb found my clit and drew slow, merciless circles, and I could only whimper and drool against his shoulder, biting down on the muscle there to keep from screaming how perfect he felt stretching me open one knuckle at a time. Footsteps passed right outside the door—unhurried, close, a voice murmuring something about signage—and I went rigid, breath stopped dead in my throat. He didn’t stop. If anything he pressed in deeper, dragging his fingers slower, wetter, forcing me to feel every drag of them while I had to lock my whole body down to keep silent.
“Listen to that,” he murmured, voice vibrating through my bones as the footsteps faded. “Listen to how wet you are for me. Praising my arms while you drip all over my hand like a mess.” He added a third finger, stretching me wider, and my knees buckled; only the pin on my wrists and the shelving at my back kept me upright. “Tell me again. Quiet this time.”
“So strong—your hands, fuck, the way you’re holding me open like it’s nothing—” The words came out wrecked, mashed against his collarbone, broken apart by the scissoring drag of his fingers. My thighs shook. The angle had me stretched taut from wrist to toe, on display, utterly at his mercy while he finger-fucked me open against cold metal. Every time I tried to grind down harder, chase my own friction, he simply tightened his grip on my wrists and forced my hips back to stillness, making me take exactly the rhythm he decided I deserved. Heat coiled vicious and fast, climbing, tightening, my inner walls already fluttering around his fingers—and right as I felt the edge rushing up to meet me, he pulled his hand free with a wet, obscene sound.
“Not yet.” His voice was wrecked too now, all pretense of control long gone.
He lowered me from the shelving fast, one arm scooping under my thighs, and for half a second I was airborne, disoriented, grabbing at his shoulders while he pivoted us toward the floor. We went down together in a controlled collapse, his body absorbing most of the fall, my back finding the hard, unforgiving tile a beat later—cool at first contact, then blooming into a dull ache as scattered lanyards and stray badge clips dug into my spine through my blouse. He was already shoving my thighs wide before I’d even settled, kneeling between them, yanking his belt the rest of the way open with one hand while the other pinned my hip to the floor, then shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, one rough motion that had my breath catching before he even touched me. My panties, still hooked aside from the shelf, hadn’t moved an inch, and he didn’t waste time confirming it—just angled himself against the wet, open heat of me and pushed.
“Kian—” was all I got out before he slammed home in one brutal thrust that punched the air clean out of my lungs. I clamped my mouth to his shoulder again on instinct, moaning brokenly into the fabric as he set a pace that was fast and vicious from the first stroke, no easing into it, hips snapping hard enough that the scattered lanyard clips dug fresh lines into my back with every thrust. “Take it,” he growled against my ear. “Take every inch and tell me how it feels.”
“So deep—Christ, so deep, splitting me open—” Every praise came out swallowed and wet against his skin, half-formed, cut off by his own grunt as he hooked one arm under my knee and folded my leg up toward my chest, opening me further, driving in at an angle that had me seeing nothing but the underside of a metal shelf, just the obscene wet slap of skin meeting skin, too loud in that tiny closet. I could feel every ridge of him dragging along my inner walls on the pull-back, the thick stretch of him on the drive-in, the way my body clenched and gushed rhythmically around him like it was trying to keep him there.
My hands scrabbled uselessly at his back, nails dragging, until he caught both wrists in one hand and slammed them flat to the tile above my head, forced together in his fist, forearms pressed tight side by side. Pinned again—differently this time, tighter, closer, the floor’s hardness replacing the shelf’s cold edge—and completely helpless under him, exposed to the fluorescent light and the door that wasn’t locked and the fact that anyone could walk in and see exactly how thoroughly he was using me. I arched up into him and bit down harder on his shoulder to keep the building cry locked inside my own throat.
He didn’t let me come there either. With a rough snarl he pulled out of me entirely—the sudden emptiness a shock after all that fullness—and hauled me up onto unsteady legs, one arm banded around my waist, manhandling me the two steps toward the supply table like I weighed nothing at all. My head was still spinning, thighs slick and trembling, my panties still shoved uselessly to one side beneath my skirt, forgotten fabric that had survived every collapse and lift without either of us sparing it a thought. He spun me and bent me forward over the table’s edge in one decisive shove. Papers slid, a stapler clattered to the floor, a box of spare chargers went skidding off the far side. My cheek hit the surface, cool wood grain rough against my heated skin, and he kicked my feet wider apart with his own before slamming back inside from behind in a single stroke that bottomed out so hard I felt it in my molars.
The new angle punched a broken sound out of me—too loud, too raw—and he smothered it instantly, yanking my head back by a fistful of hair while his other hand clamped hard over my mouth. “Quiet,” he rasped, hips already driving in a punishing rhythm. “They’re right outside that door. You come when I say, and you come silent.”
I nodded frantically against his palm, drooling into the heel of his hand, eyes rolling back as he hammered into me over and over, the table groaning and inching against the floor with the force of it. My breasts scraped the wooden surface with every thrust, nipples dragging over scattered receipt paper, and he kept one hand clamped over my mouth while his other arm banded across my lower back, pinning me flat—until, in one clean motion, he released my hair, dragged both my scrabbling hands back from where they’d braced against the table edge, and pinned them low against the small of my back with his palm instead, holding them stacked there while his other hand found my hip for leverage. No confusion, no shuffling—just both wrists caught and held against my own spine, my whole upper body locked down, cheek to wood, blind and bent and utterly at his mercy while he fucked me from behind with brutal, unrelenting purpose, the slap of his hips against my ass sending fresh shockwaves up my spine every single time.
“Look at you,” he growled, low and filthy, mouth right against my ear now, breath hot and ragged. “Bent over, pinned down, taking every inch and still trying to tell me how good it feels. Say it again. Whisper it against that table.”
“Your hands—God, the way you hold me down like I’m nothing to you, the way you fill me up so completely—” The praise tumbled out muffled and wrecked against the wood, broken between thrusts, and this time when the heat detonated there was no edging, no pulling back—just his hips slamming forward one final time as my whole body seized, wrists straining uselessly under the flat, unbreakable weight of his palm against my spine. My cunt clamped down in vicious rhythmic pulses around him, and I sobbed silently into the table, shaking, blind, completely undone with both my hands trapped and helpless behind my back. He followed almost immediately with a guttural sound torn straight from his chest, burying himself to the hilt and grinding deep as he came, hips stuttering through every spurt while he kept my wrists pinned through all of it, refusing to let go until the very last aftershock rolled through me.
We stayed like that, both of us gasping, his chest heaving hot against my back, badges and lanyard clips scattered in the wreckage around our feet. He didn’t ease off gentle. He kept my wrists pinned a beat longer than necessary, like he wasn’t ready to give that back yet, and when he finally released them he immediately grabbed my hip instead, fingers digging in possessive, and bit down hard at the curve of my neck where he’d first dragged my blouse crooked back against the shelving, a growl vibrating straight through his teeth into my skin.
“Addicted already,” he rasped against my ear, voice wrecked and dark. “Next closet, next near-miss—I’m not stopping at three positions. I’m keeping you pinned until you’re begging me in front of whoever walks in.” He pulled out slow, and I felt the slick drag of it everywhere, felt his fingers tighten once more on my hip like he was memorizing the shape of it. “My filthy, perfect rival, who talks about my strength like it’s a weapon and still can’t stop drowning in it.”
I could only nod, still trembling, wrists throbbing with the ghost of his grip, already dreading—already craving—the next impossible meeting that would land us right back here.