Dirtiest Lie (4 page)

It knocks me off balance, but pinned as I am, all I can do is let my legs slide out straight, leaving me sitting on my bare ass. The black rug beneath the sofa is fluffy and a little ticklish, and the snaps from the garter belt press into my skin.

Hawthorne stops fucking my mouth long enough to order me onto the sofa.

I scramble up and get into the same position I had been in on the floor before getting trapped—essentially crouching on the soft cushions.

Seductively, I comb my fingers through my hair. The air fills with the scent of vanilla. I tilt my head a little and smile provocatively.

Hawthorne’s attention drops low, between my legs. My knees are spread wide, and I swing them back together.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. His cock is thick and swollen, the dark purple color of a bruise. It’s not a beautiful cock. In fact, there’s something obscene about it, about the unapologetic way it thrusts angrily from his tailored pants.

Obscene and sexy.

His rough hands spread my knees apart, but when I glance up, he’s looking into my face. The scrutiny is too much, and I flinch.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“Fucking,” I say, desperate to get to that portion of my so-called training.

“Fucking? Can you be more specific?”

I shrug. I can feel that my pussy is wet, surely glistening with arousal.

“You’re careful with your words, Lindsay. You could have said you want your bosses to fuck you. Or that you want me to fuck you. Or that you want sex. Or that you want me to hold you. What happened that night you spent in Romeo’s bed?” His eyes narrow slightly, and his mouth tightens.

“None of your business.”

“The days of you ignoring our questions are in the past. If you learn nothing else from me today, it will be that.”

“Nothing happened,” I say. “We slept. It was very G-rated.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes.” But because I feel exposed, I find myself adding, “Sex would have been better.” Which is a complete and utter lie, but I’m angry. That night in Romeo’s bed was the most erotic of my life, and he barely touched me. It felt special. Sacred.

And now Hawthorne is using it to push my buttons.

Hawthorne kneels on the edge of the sofa. He’s between my legs, pushing on my knees, spreading my thighs. His hands glide over the stockings.

It’s not easy for me to balance like this, and I wonder if my stilettos are inflicting irreparable wounds on the soft upholstery. Though in this office, soft things never stood a chance.

Hawthorne’s gaze penetrates me. “Do you want me to fuck you? Hurt you? Or do you want something else?”

I want… both.

“What do you need?” he asks.

He moves closer, and the head of his cock nudges my inner thigh. It could be a sensual tease, but it’s more of a stabbing assault.

What do I need? It’s a good question. Historically, it’s also one that Hawthorne is convinced I’m unable to answer.

“Ask for what you want,” he says. “Anything I can give you in this room, it’s yours.”

My mouth is dry. Anything I want?

What I really want is for him to read my mind. To pull me into his arms and hold me. I know it won’t be as good as being in Romeo’s arms. Both men—all three of my bosses, to be accurate—are capable of physically keeping me safe. They’re all large men, their athletic bodies thick with muscle. They’re confident, and they have connections and money.

But with Romeo, there’s a certain tenderness there, deep down, and I don’t think Hawthorne is capable of that. Not for real. I’m sure he can pretend to be anything for short periods of time, but how could I ever truly feel safe in the arms of a man whose tongue is as likely to cut me as to bring me to the heights of orgasmic bliss?

Acknowledging that we provoke each other, that it’s mutual, doesn’t change the reality of our dynamic.

“Try being brave,” he says, and I can see his patience is beginning to wear thin.

Well, mine is, too.

“You can’t give me what I want,” I say evenly. “So I think you’d better fuck me.”

He looks stunned for a moment, then his mouth curls into a tight-lipped smile. He grabs the back of my head as he gets off the sofa, and he brings my face down onto his cock.

Hard.

He knows how to wield his erection like a weapon, and he does.

Growling quietly, he fucks my mouth, holding me steady while he jackhammers down my throat.

My gagging doesn’t stop him. My whimpers and moans don’t slow him down. Only my safe gesture could save me, and I refuse to use it.

My legs are twisted underneath me, and my fingers endeavor, in vain, to burrow into the upholstery, to find some stability.

Hawthorne hasn’t been this intense since the first night the four of us played together. Back then he didn’t like me, didn’t want anything to do with me, and he did his best to chase me away.

Right now I’m being punished for what I said, and I know my words were cruel. But what he said earlier about how easy it is to provoke me… It goes both ways.

One step forward, two steps back. Thank goodness I don’t have unhealthy interactions with Romeo or Slade.

My face gets hot as Hawthorne uses his cock to choke me.

My pussy gets wet, so very wet.

Fuck me
, I think.
Put us both out of our misery.

His fingers tangled in my hair, he yanks me off of his shaft.

“Say something honest,” he pants.

I use the back of my hand to wipe slobber from my mouth and chin while I catch my breath. “Why? The last time I did, you rammed your cock down my throat.” Tremors of excitement shake through my body. “You’re a selfish lover, just looking for any excuse to punish me,” I say.

Trembling, I look up at him. His face is strangely blank.

I feel my own face go pale. “Aren’t you going to spank me?” I ask, adding a smile.

“No,” he says. “That’s not what you need right now, and you know it. If you’re not going to take this seriously, well, I have work to do.”

He walks to the desk and violently pulls out the chair.

His anger would make a more frightening image if his huge cock wasn’t sticking out of his pants, and I fight a giggle.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel like I’m skating on a thin edge of something, and I don’t just mean by antagonizing Hawthorne for no good reason. Maybe it’s because I’m a prisoner here for two weeks. I should hate my bosses for that… but I don’t.

Or maybe it’s because after years of self-sufficiency, I’m now dependent on these three powerful men to save me, to fix the messes that I couldn’t… but it’s a relief to know I have help.

There’s another possibility, and the twisting in my gut tells me that it’s the real reason.

At some point today—or maybe tomorrow, if I’m lucky—I’m going to have to tell my bosses the rest of the details about my grandfather and what happened the night I ran away.

To make a plan that doesn’t destroy my sister’s life, my bosses need to know the truth. All of it, and not the sanitized version I tell myself so I can sleep at night.

I don’t deserve comfort.

And I know what I need. Distraction.

“Let me suck you,” I say as Hawthorne lowers himself into his chair.

He makes a sound that suggests he’s not interested, but then he surprises me by motioning me over with a condescending gesture.

“Crawl,” he says before I take two steps.

“Excuse me?”

He picks up a pen and clicks the top, then reaches for a stack of documents with yellow “sign here” notes sticking out.

The office falls silent except for the scrape of pen across paper.

From the time he’s taking, I guess he’s carefully writing out his full name. Hawthorne Tarraget. I suppose it’s a lot of letters.

The more he ignores me, the hornier I get.

It occurs to me that this morning of training is, so far, an unmitigated disaster. Slade or Romeo should have gone first. Probably Romeo. Slade is too… easygoing. He’s dominant, but he doesn’t push me emotionally. Sexually, sure, he likes identifying my limits and then breaking through them. All my bosses do.

But Slade would never have expected me to beg. Slade wouldn’t be making me crawl across his office just so I can suck his dick.

Romeo might make me do something humiliating, but he wouldn’t let things get so that both our egos were wrapped up in the outcome.

Anyway, I’m horny, and while sucking him isn’t exactly what I want to be doing with my time,
not
sucking him is an obstacle to getting the fucking that I asked for.

So I lower myself to my knees. I drop my head down and see my inner thighs are damp. I glance up to confirm that Hawthorne isn’t looking at me, but in the end I decide not to explore just how wet I am.

Sighing, I crawl across the office and around his desk. It’s like going around a mountain.

He shoves back his chair. “Bend over,” he says, picking up the ruler. He pats his lap.

Eyeing the ruler, which is twelve inches of rigid wood that nonetheless looks like it could easily break, I stand, then delicately position myself across Hawthorne’s lap.

His cock is harder than ever, and it jabs into my ribs as he pulls me down, getting me into the uncomfortable position he wants.

“Put both your index fingers into your pussy,” he commands. His voice is low, deep and even.

But he can’t fool me.

I recognize the tension in his body as mirroring my own, and his breathing is shallow with arousal.

And then, yeah, there’s that cock. It’s hot and sticky under my body.

I start to slide my hands back, over my buttocks, but Hawthorne uses the ruler to flick my fingers away.

“No,” he says. “From underneath.”

It’s not exactly comfortable, but I lie on my hands and slowly shove my index fingers into my clutching heat.

I’m wet. And horny. I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from moaning.

“Leave your hands there,” he says hoarsely. “The rest of your fingers will remain curled.”

Before I can ask why, he slaps the ruler hard across my buttocks, and I gasp. Because of where my fingers are, I get to appreciate the tight clenching of my pussy.

Slowly, I move one of my hands so that my thumb is across my clit, and I tease the engorged nub.

Hawthorne’s voice is right in my ear as he whispers, “Did I give you permission to play with yourself?”

“You told me to put my fingers into my pussy,” I snap, trying to twist my head in an attempt to glare at him. “I didn’t realize I needed a lawyer to break down what that does and doesn’t mean.”

His response is nonverbal: a hard strike across my ass.

“Ow!” It’s a narrow but intense band of pain.

“Make as much noise as you want,” he murmurs huskily. “It turns me on, and this room is soundproof. But even if it weren’t, I don’t care if the entire office knows I’ve got your gorgeous, naked body across my lap. I don’t care if the entire world knows I’m punishing you.”

Why does that make me even wetter?

“If you want to play with your pussy, ask,” he says.

I tilt my head up far enough to meet his dominating stare. “If it pleases your kingship, I’d like to play with myself.”

“Would you also like to orgasm?”

“Yes,” I say. “If that’s not too inconvenient for you.”

“Request denied,” he says with relish, and it reminds me of our first meeting.
Expense disallowed!

“Why?” I ask.

“Because manners matter.” He smacks that wicked ruler against my ass, and it stings.

But it’s not enough to stop me from rubbing my thumb over my clit. Because in the end, he can’t stop me from playing with my own body.

I’m close. Very close. Just twenty, maybe thirty seconds, and—

Hawthorne drops the ruler and lifts me off his lap.

For a moment I’m in the air, then he easily flips me onto my back. He jerks my hands from between my legs and holds them over my head.

It doesn’t matter how much I struggle; Hawthorne is much stronger than I am. Plus, he’s clearly done this before.

The futility of my situation doesn’t stop me from trying to escape. Hawthorne doesn’t seem to mind, though; he easily maintains control of my body.

Damn, it feels good to physically oppose him.

He leans over, washing me in his masculine scent, to retrieve the ruler. “Open your legs,” he says.

Eying the punishing piece of wood in his hand, I consider my options. “Why?”

He grins, a flash of perfect white in his face, which is lightly tanned from playing tennis outdoors. “Because I told you to,” he says, and he underscores his point by slapping the ruler’s flat tip across my mound.

It doesn’t hurt at all. In fact, it’s just a tiny bit of stimulation.

I open my legs for him. One of the garter belt’s straps gets caught and pops open.

“Good,” he says, and he leans over to kiss me.

Instead of a real kiss, I receive a sharp nip. Another one of Hawthorne’s kisses, a type that I forgot to categorize. I mentally add it to the list.

He rotates the ruler and begins tapping it against my pussy. At first it just feels good, but within thirty seconds, it hurts.

Really hurts.

He’s not punishing my clit. It’s my thighs that are taking the brunt of the punishment.

“Now,” he says,
tap, tap, tap
, “are you going to behave?”

“Yes,” I moan. I can’t look away from him. He’s unfairly attractive, which is one of the things about him that drives me crazy. I’m getting used to it, and how unfair that he gets to be effortlessly hot and how that lets him get away with all kinds of crap that an average-looking man would never dare try.

Like denying women orgasms.

The taps slow. “Turn over,” he says, only loosening his grip on my wrists by a tiny amount—just enough so that I can flip across his lap.

Now I’m facedown again. The underwire in the bra is a bit uncomfortable. It wasn’t before.

He tightens his grip around my wrists, and I moan.

“You like when we physically control you, don’t you?” he murmurs.

He slams the ruler across my buttocks so hard that for a moment, I don’t see anything, and in the next breath, what I can see—the edge of the chair, my arms stretched out, the floor, the bookcase in the corner—is blurry with tears.