Chapter 392: [R18] Taboo Hours(2)

Victoria was already under him when he lined himself up, the head of his cock resting against her, and for a second neither of them moved. She was wet from everything that had come before, her folds parted around him, heat leaking onto his stomach, and he felt that first soft give before anything went in, just the mouth of her pussy, slick and swollen, waiting. She looked down between them the way she looked at a contract she already intended to sign. Then he pushed.

The head sank into her slowly, heavier than a slide, and her body opened around him in a tight ring that had to climb over the ridge of him and lock behind it. Twenty-two centimeters waiting, sixteen around. The stretch was immediate, a thick circle of pressure that made Victoria’s mouth fall open on a sound that never became a word. Inside she was hotter than her mouth had been and wetter too, the kind of wet that didn’t sit on the surface but came from deeper and coated him as he went, silk and muscle pulling in the same direction. He felt her walls flutter once, a small startled squeeze, then yield because there was nowhere else for them to go.

"Ah—!"

He kept going, mid-shaft. The stretch climbed through her in one thick, continuous pressure, a slow sensation of filling, every extra centimeter multiplying the same ache into pleasure, and her thighs tightened on his hips like her body was trying to decide whether to keep him out or drag him in.

The desk creaked under her shoulder blades. The blotter slid. One heel scraped the side panel and hooked there, useless. He bottomed out in one long drive and her stomach jumped; she felt him knock high inside her, a fullness that sat behind her navel and stole the next breath before she could spend it on an order. Her makeup was still perfect. Her eyes were not doing the job. From above he had all of it: blonde hair stuck to her temple, the robe crushed at her waist, her heavy breasts flattened under his chest.

He didn’t rush the second stroke. He let her feel the size land. She had already took it once. She had had it in her mouth. Yet, it still made a firework in her brain, like a power she couldn’t receive. He pulled back until only the head stayed caught in that tight ring and pushed in again, and the sound that came with it was wet and low, schlk, flesh taking flesh with no air left between.

Plap.

The notebook jumped. The glasses clicked. The water glass slid toward the edge.

"Slow," she exhaled. "Don’t move. Let me—"

He moved anyway, filling her again. All twenty-two of his dick seated inside a body that had to work to hold sixteen around.

"Nash—ahh—"

"I’m here."

Schlk. Plap.

The Boss’s appearance was still in her face, jaw set, until the next thrust knocked the set loose and her hands found his shoulders. Every time he landed she made that short punched sound, uhn, as if the air was being pressed out of her by the shape of his dick. She was soaked enough that the slide was easy and tight enough that it still dragged. He felt her in pieces: the rim gripping the head, the middle hotter and softer, the end a closed heat that kissed the tip when he went too deep.

"On my rhythm," she said. "I said on my—ahh—rhythm."

"You’re on a desk," Nash said.

"I’m aware of the—nnh—furniture."

He laughed once, and gave it to her harder. The desk complained. Something behind her head slid. Her breasts moved every time, heavy and golden, nipples dragging his skin. He took one in his mouth because it was there, bit the edge, and felt her clench around him like her body had voted without asking her.

Plap. Plap. Schlk.

"Deeper," she said, immediately after telling him slow, then sharper: "Don’t you dare smile."

"I’m not smiling."

"You are—uhn—you are." Her nails ran his back. "Do your job. Just—ahh—do your job."

The glass tipped. Water climbed the rim. Nash snatched it with one hand without pulling out of her and set it farther back on the wood, still buried, still throbbing in that clenched heat, breathing through his nose.

"Not dealing with broken glass," he said. "Not in a room where we’re doing this."

Victoria stared at him, wrecked and offended at the same time.

"Did you seriously stop for a fucking glass?"

"I stopped so we don’t get hurt. Hold on."

He hooked his arms under her and lifted. She was still on him, full, impaled, and the change of angle punched a sound out of her against his neck, ahh—Nash—, her legs locking around his waist because there was nothing else to hold. He walked. Each step drove him a little deeper, her walls slipping and catching, again and again, the thick girth turning every small bounce into another stretch. The carpet ate his feet. Her breasts crushed his chest. The silk trailed off her like a uniform she had forgotten to take off.

He then set her on the bed, him on top.The mattress was thick, so they sank and bounced once with him still inside, and for a second she was on her back again under him, proper this time, sheets instead of wood. He kissed her like the desk had only been the draft.

Their mouths opened at the same time and the kiss went wet immediately, too much spit, no technique. He tasted himself on her tongue from earlier, salt and heat, a faint slick bitterness at the back, and she tasted like the last sip of water she hadn’t needed plus the leather still in her hair. Her saliva was warm and a little thick; it mixed with his and sat between their lips before sliding down the corner of her mouth. Their teeth knocked. She moaned into him, mmh—, and the sound went down his throat with the spit. When he pulled back an inch a string of it stretched between them, shining, and broke on his chin when he came back in. Her breath hit his lips, short and hot, and it made him harder inside her.

"Don’t take your mouth off me," she muttered.

He didn’t. He stayed on top and fucked her through the kiss, slower than the desk, deeper because the bed let him get his knees under him and drive. The mattress took the weight and gave it back. Every stroke dragged along that same high place inside her and she made small broken sounds into his mouth that she would have killed in a hallway,

"uhn, ahh, Nash—"

He felt how wet she had gotten just from being carried, how the slide was easier now and still not easy, how her legs tightened when all twenty-two centimeters went in and stayed there a second too long.

He kissed her through two more thrusts, sloppy, tongues sliding, spit on both chins, until she pushed on his chest.

Then she rolled him.

The mattress took it without a sound. Nash ended up on his back and Victoria climbed, like the Boss herself who had announced her turn in front of a whole room and intended to collect. She set her feet flat on the mattress on either side of his hips, knees bent, the way to get her whole pelvis free. She reached down, found him shining from her, lined the thick head up, and sank. The first inch opened her mouth. The rest made the title late. Sixteen centimeters of girth forced her open all over again; twenty-two of length made her sit down on a problem she had chosen.

"Hahh—"

She took him to the base and sat there with both palms flat on his stomach, her breasts hanging over him, the silk bunched at her hips like a belt that still thought it had a job. Her ass settled against his thighs. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, and the smile that came back was the after-hours smile, sure, mature, pleased with her own decision.

"Stay," she said. "Don’t thrust. I waited all night to have this on my terms."

He stayed.

She lifted on her feet and came down.

Plap.

It wasn’t a bounce she borrowed from the mattress. It was her. She used her hips like she trained them, a tight rolling snap, up on the balls of her feet and down with her whole pelvis, a controlled twerk that showed strength in the muscle, not just hurry. Halfway down she clenched around him on purpose, a hard move that dragged along the shaft and made his breath catch, then released and dropped the rest of the way.

The mattress bounced them anyway, soft and thick, and her breasts moved in a slow, rich way he didn’t look away from: golden skin, dark nipples, the smear of precum still shining on her sternum, her stomach tightening every time she took all of him.

She found a rhythm. Up. Snap. Down. Clench. Not shy. Not hesitation. She fucked him.

The wet sound filled the room, schlk—plap—schlk, and she talked through it like she was still running the room, except the size kept stealing words out of her.

"This is mine. After hours. My bed. You don’t get to rush me because you got impatient on a—ahh—desk."

"You’re doing all the work," Nash said.

"I’m the one who locked the door." She dropped harder. Plap. Her mouth fell open. "Ah— God. You’re— you’re so—nnh—don’t talk."

"You’re the one talking."

"I’m brief—ahh—I’m briefing. There’s a difference."

He let her have it, long enough that it stopped looking like a pose. She braced on his chest, lifted higher on those flat feet, slammed down, clenched at the bottom like she was trying to keep him there by force. A string of spit left the corner of her mouth she didn’t wipe right away. Then she did wipe it, irritated with herself, and kept moving, eyes glassy, hair stuck to her neck, the silk riding up and doing nothing. The sentences got shorter, the moans got longer.

"Look at me," she said.

He did.

"Good." She rolled her hips in a tight circle, grinding the thick base against her, taking him in a movement that made her gasp. "This is what I think about when people are still talking. This. Sitting on you. Making you stay still. Uhn— taking it because I—nnh—decided to."

"You’re shaking."

"I’m work—ahh—I’m working."

There wasn’t a difference anymore, but he didn’t say so. He watched her ma’am persona stay dressed in her voice while her thighs started to tremble. The sure smile kept slipping and coming back. She chased it anyway. She leaned down and kissed him while she moved.

Slower than before, wetter. Her tongue was heavier now, lazy and warm, sliding over his, and he could taste the effort in her mouth, the heat. Their spit mixed again, thicker this time, a slick film that made the kiss sound as much as it felt. When she pulled back a thread of it hung between them, shining, and broke on his chin. Her breath stayed on his lips, short, wet, a little sweet from her own mouth.

"Don’t narrate me," she said.

"I’m not."

"You were about to—uhn—" She sat up again and used him. The bounce of the mattress did half the work and she let it, but the snap in her hips was still hers, that trained pull and drop, feet planted, ass working. Every drop sent her breasts throwing themselves forward, tap—tap, and she watched his face like she was checking a reaction she intended to own.

"I want to sit in a meeting tomorrow and still feel you. That’s the point. That’s—ahh—the whole—nnh—"

"Say it again."

"I want to feel you tomorrow." She dropped. Plap. "In a chair. In a suit. While I sign something that—uhn—matters."

Her hands slipped on his chest. She caught herself, tried to put the rhythm back where she had left it, and failed by half a second. The next clench was sloppy. The next sentence didn’t finish.

Nash took her ass in both hands, full, both palms. He held the weight she was so proud of and started driving up into her from below.

Victoria broke on the first one.

"N-Nash—!"

"Focus."

"I said—uhn—on my rhythm—"

"Your rhythm’s gone."

PLAP-PLAP-PLAP

She tried to match him and couldn’t. The sounds went sloppy, wet, loud. Ma’am’s face was still there, but the eyes weren’t doing the job anymore. Her feet stayed planted for two more strokes, then one knee buckled and she had to catch herself on his chest.

"S-Slower," she said.

But he refused.

Yet...

"ahh—ngh—Deeper—yes—don’t you— don’t pull out—"

"Make up your mind."

"Fuck you." Then, immediately, wrecked: "Don’t pull out. Nash. Don’t—ahh—"

He squeezed, spread her, and pulled her down onto each stroke. Twenty-two centimeters punching up into a body that had already taken too much and wanted more anyway. She fell forward, mouth against his, another filthy kiss, spit and breath and the salt of her skin, and one of her hands slid down between them and pressed her own stomach, checking, like she needed to feel the shape of his monster from the outside.

"Please," she said.

"Please what?"

"Fill me." Her forehead against his, breath shaking. "I want it in me. I want to feel it tomorrow. I want—nnh—I want you to finish where I can keep it."

He gave her the last stretch of it from below with no speech, just the young stamina she had stolen for herself, and when it broke in him, it exploded. The first jet was thick enough that she felt it as a strike, a hot compressed pulse shooting against that high place inside her, too much and too sudden, and her whole belly lit up like someone had poured warmth straight into the muscle.

She gasped into his mouth. The second followed before she had the first breath back, heavier, a rope of heat that painted her from the inside and made her thighs jump. The third made her moan, stupid and open, hahh—, because it didn’t feel like a finish so much as a drug, slick, filthy, euphoric, her walls seizing around him in little pulls as if they were trying to milk the next one out.

And for sure, there was a next one. He kept coming, again and again. Long pulses, packed, each one a wet throb she could count against her navel, overflowing the seal of her rim so that it leaked down him in slow white sheets while more was still pumping in. She shook through it, eyes wet, mouth slack, the hand on her stomach pressing like she needed proof the heat was real.

"Hahh— it’s— it’s a lot—Nash—"

He held her down on it until the last kick faded, still buried, still twitching, and even once he finished, she didn’t get off him. She stayed there, feet still planted on either side of his hips, and caught her breath against his chest, laughing lightly. Then her pussy tightened around him on purpose again, a hard, trained squeeze, and she started milking him through the aftershocks, small rolls of her hips, pulling another thick pulse out of him that she had no reason to need except that the night was not over.

Nash’s hands stayed on her ass. He squeezed, smiling up at her.

And as his eyes bathed into the yellow of her hair, the blue from something else stared back at him from over her shoulder,

[SPECIAL RARE QUEST AVAILABLE]

[ QUEST: KING INSCRIPTION]

Target : Victoria Graves

Objective: Leave a complete internal mark × 10

Progress: 1 / 10

Reward: New Parameter Unlocked [CLASSIFIED — clears at 10/10]

Condition: External release will not register. The mark must be left where it can take.

"... What in the world?" he murmured.