Chapter 158: Knotting The CEO -5

Julian’s POV

His right hand left the top of the chair and slid down, his palm resting flat over the slope of my neck where it met my shoulder.

His thumb began to move in a slow, firm circle, digging into the knot of muscle there. The relief was instantaneous, but the heat of his hand sent an immediate, traitorous ripple down my spine.

I let out a quiet, involuntary breath, my head tilting away from his hand before I could stop myself.

David took full advantage. He stepped closer, crowding the back of the chair until the front of his trousers pressed firmly against the leather right behind my head. He didn’t rush. His fingers worked up the side of my neck, sliding under the collar of my shirt, his knuckles brushing against my jawline with a deliberate, slow friction that made my pulse spike in my throat.

"You like it when I take care of you like this, don’t you?" he whispered, his voice dropping into that deep, steady register that made every boundary I had feel completely meaningless.

"David..." I rasped, gripping the edge of the conference table as his other hand came down, tracing the line of my arm from the shoulder down to my wrist.

He bent his head further, his lips brushing the sensitive patch of skin right beneath my earlobe. He didn’t kiss me—he just lingered there, letting his warm breath fan out across my skin, holding me completely captive in the middle of a glass-walled conference room.

"You’re shivering, Boss," he murmured, a faint, low hum of satisfaction in his throat. He brought his hand around to the front of my chest, his palm flattening over my neck tie, his thumb gently pressing against the hollow of my throat. "Your heart is beating so fast."

"Someone... someone could walk past," I choked out, but I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t. My body felt heavy, completely pinned under the weight of his attention, my hips unconsciously shifting against the seat as the coil of heat in my gut tightened.

"Let them look," David whispered, his fingers slowly loosening the knot of my tie with a light, practiced touch.

He didn’t take it off; he just pulled it slightly loose, exposing the top button of my shirt. His thumb slid inside the collar, pressing right over my racing pulse.

"You spent all morning trying to ignore me, Julian. But we both know who’s running this room right now."

He leaned in just enough for his jaw to scrape lightly against mine, his fingers tightening just a fraction on my collar, holding my head right where he wanted it while my breathing turned shallow and uneven.

The looseness of my collar felt like an invitation, a crack in the pristine corporate armor I’d worn all morning. My breath hitched in my chest, every sense dialed in to the heavy, unyielding weight of him behind me.

David didn’t pull back. Instead, his hand slid slowly down from my neck, over the front of my shirt, taking his time until his palm pressed flat against my stomach. Through the fabric, I could feel the heat radiating off his skin, solid and demanding.

"Look at the screen, Julian," he murmured into my ear, his voice barely a breath.

I tried to focus on the projection—the charts, the numbers, the quarterly margins—but the data was a complete blur.

"Tell me what row four says," he commanded softly, his hand dropping lower, his fingers hooking under my belt buckle.

The cold metal clicked as he loosened the leather strap. A quiet, pathetic gasp caught in the back of my throat. My thighs turned to lead, my hips shifting forward on the leather cushion as his thumb hooked beneath the waistband of my trousers, tugging down just enough to expose my skin to the chill of the air-conditioned room.

"David..." I choked out, my hands flying to the armrests, my knuckles white as I fought the urge to arch up into his touch. "The meeting... two o’clock..."

"We have fifteen minutes," he whispered against my jaw, his tone entirely level, completely unbothered by the deadline. "Plenty of time for you to answer my question."

His fingers slid beneath the elastic of my briefs, wrapping around my already hard dick with a slow, firm grip that nearly took my feet out from under me.

I let out a low, breathless groan, my head falling back against his shoulder. His jacket fabric was rough against my cheek, a stark contrast to the slick, electric heat of his hand working over my length.

He began a steady, deliberate stroke—not fast enough to break me immediately, but tight and controlled, asserting complete dominance over my breath, my body, and my executive restraint. Every time my hips twitched upward seeking more speed, he held me firm, keeping the pace slow and agonizingly precise.

"Tell me who’s in charge of this floor, Boss," David murmured, his lips grazing the shell of my ear as he stroked me, drawing a long, shuddering sigh from my chest.

"You..." I rasped out, completely unraveled, my mind forfeiting every shred of authority I had left. "You are."

"Good boy," he whispered softly, his thumb rubbing over the crown just hard enough to make my eyes roll back, pushing me straight to the perilous edge of a cliff I knew I couldn’t afford to fall off.

The coiling heat in my gut turned into a sharp, blinding wave of pure need. Years of restraint, corporate policy, and executive authority melted away in seconds, replaced by a desperate, aching hunger that made my skin burn.

I turned in the leather chair, my hands reaching out blindly to grab his lapels, pulling him down until our mouths crashed together. I kissed him with a sudden, uncharacteristic desperation, my tongue searching his, my hips rolling up against his thighs.

I was completely unraveled, riding high on the edge he’d brought me to, and I didn’t care about the conference room, the glass doors, or the three department heads arriving in ten minutes.

"David... please," I panted against his mouth, my hands dropping to the buckle of his belt, my fingers fumbling blindly with the leather as I tried to pull him closer, to pull him in.

"Right now. On the table. I don’t care...just do it."

I was ready, my body flushed, tight, and completely surrendered to him.

I wanted him to take full advantage of the opening I was handing him on a silver platter.

Instead, David caught both of my wrists in a single, firm grip.

He didn’t pull away entirely, but he held my hands firmly against his chest, stopping my frantic movements dead in their tracks.

His breathing was heavy, his eyes dark with a intense, controlled hunger, but his grip was absolute steel.

"No," David whispered, his voice thick but entirely steady.

"Not like this, Julian. Not rushed in a room where anyone could walk in, and not on a five-minute timer."

"David, please..." I gasped, my hips twitching involuntarily, the denied friction making me whimper in frustration. "I need you to..."

"If I’m going to take you for the first time," he interrupted, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of my ear, his tone dropping into a low, possessive rumble that sent a shiver straight down my spine,

"it’s going to be in a real bed, for hours, where you can scream as loud as you want. I want you completely undone, and I want you to remember every single second of it. Not an rushed fix in an office."

He released my wrists and stepped back, smoothly re-zipping my trousers and tucking my shirt back in with deliberate, gentle efficiency before fixing his own tie.

I sat back in the chair, my chest heaving, completely denied and throbbing with an intense, unfulfilled ache.

The rejection cut through my flushed skin, leaving me raw, frustrated, and agonizingly high and dry right on the edge of a cliff.

"Fix your tie, Boss," David said softly, stepping toward the door just as footsteps echoed down the hallway outside.

"They’re here."

Two minutes later, the door swung open, and three senior project managers filed in, carrying folders and hot mugs of coffee.

I forced myself to sit up straight, my face still burning, my heart hammering against my ribs while my lower half ached with a deep, unsatisfied pulse.

"Good afternoon, Julian," Sarah, the head of operations, said as she pulled out a chair directly across the long mahogany table from me.

"Sorry we’re late, the Q3 review ran over."

"No problem at all, Sarah," I managed, my voice sounding tight and raspy. I cleared my throat, praying my flushed cheeks looked like stress rather than sheer, denied arousal.

"Let’s... let’s get straight into the quarterly projections."

David stood by the smartboard, completely composed, clicking open the presentation slide deck as if he hadn’t just had his hand down my pants three minutes ago.

He looked so calm, so infuriatingly in control while I sat there practically vibrating with unspent tension.

As Sarah began speaking about the logistics budget, I felt a subtle movement under the table.

Before I could process it, a smooth, heavy shoe slid along the inside of my ankle, creeping up my calf. I stiffened, my hands freezing over my notepad.

I looked across the table. David was sitting near the head of the board, pointing at a bar graph, his expression was professional and attentive as he answered a question from the marketing lead.

But beneath the dark oak surface, his foot moved higher, his shoe sliding past my knee, stepping directly into the notch between my thighs.

My breath hitched in my throat.

With agonizing slowness and absolute precision, David pressed the leather sole of his dress shoe directly against my crotch.

A sharp gasp nearly escaped my lips, but I clamped my mouth shut, digging my fingernails hard into the palm of my hand under the table.

He didn’t just touch me - he began to flex his foot, applying a firm, rhythmic pressure, rubbing the sole of his shoe over the prominent bulge straining against my trousers.