Resisting Rosaleen (18+)

9

Mr. Camillo tensed. When I pulled away, he was glaring at me. My fingers grasped the hem of my skirt, about to pull it up and flash him when his hands stopped me.

"Stop," he spoke coldly, "I have a wife, get off me."

Now you tell me?

"Yeah, no shit," I rolled my eyes, "I've met your wife, Nikolas, and I bet I can fuck you better."

I attempted to pull the skirt up again only to be stopped in the same prior manner.

"Get off me."

"If I hadn't revealed my little surprise, you would've let me stay." I pouted and ground my bare sex against him, feeling him harden beneath me, "Is that really what you want? For me to get off?"

I trailed kisses down his neck, "Sir?"

"Rosaleen, get off," he growled as he held my wrist and pried me off. I stood between his open legs and his desk.

"You touched me already." I put his hands on my waist, "What difference will it make?" I toyed with the ring on his finger.

"It was stupid of me."

"Yes, how stupid of you," I sat on his desk, "Because now I want more."

I opened my legs and perched my feet on his lap, my kitten heels poking his knees. Nikolas's eyes remained on my face. His breathing turned ragged and the honey-brown pools in his eyes darkened with—surprise—lust. Maintaining eye contact, I let my fingers trail from my neck, to the swell of my breasts, to the space in between, to my stomach, and finally to my sex.

"Stop," he said clearly, but his actions told otherwise. His fingers grasped my ankles and his thumbs circled the muscles. I was, with no doubt, extremely wet. My middle finger and ring finger circled the hood, drawing a soft moan through my parted lips. No straight man would be able to stand the sight before Nikolas Camillo. Lucky bastard.

He ground his teeth together. I've noticed that he does that a lot. Having enough fun with my clit, I brought the two fingers to my mouth, wetting them. Nick's grip on my legs tightened. He was still refusing to peek. It was then I decided to slip my fingers inside me, drawing a sharp gasp from myself.

Fingering myself is not usually this pleasurable. I'm guessing that the man in front of me had something to do with the heightened sensual sensation.

"Watch me," I rasped as I moved my fingers in and out.

His eyes were glued to my face as if the world would end for him when he brings his gaze down.

"You should stop." His voice was strained.

"You're not stopping me though."

I hooked the two fingers to a sweet spot, furiously rubbing it. His attention flitted to my lips and the way I was panting. My fingers had never felt this good.

My eyes rolled into my skull as my back arched. I knew myself well enough to know where to touch and stimulate for a quick release. The tightening of my flesh against my fingers were enough indication that I was close.

"Watch me come," I spoke, my own voice unrecognizable.

Camillo glanced down just in time for my orgasm to take place. I groaned as my legs twitched, my feet almost sliding off his lap if he hadn't held them in place. My hips rolled forward and back as I rode my peak—its intensity hitting me like a slap to my lungs. The tight shut of my eyes, one sense taken away, had my full attention drifting to none other than the euphoric feeling below my belly. When I did open my eyes, I caught Mr. Camillo watching: watching my juices stream down, watching as I brought my fingers to my lips, watching when I sucked and tasted myself.