Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 19: The Fable

EMERY

I've always been good at strategy games. Think three steps ahead. Know what your opponent might do, might think. Despite his protests, I had a feeling Damon's reserve was fickle, capricious. He made it seem like his word was platinum, but it's not. It's gold. Malleable. Pliant. Weak, really. I knew that given the right circumstances, the right atmosphere, and the right spectators, he'd bend.

But what I foolishly didn't account for was his vindictive and cruel counterattack.

"Emery..." Damon's fingers swirl around my sex like they're conjuring a whirlpool, and I grip the base of his shaft tighter, my core pulsing from his calculated ministrations. He grunts under his breath, stacking his hand on mine and forcibly pushing it away. Fuck. "Why don't you tell Quinton all about your education and background, hmm? Since he seems to doubt your qualifications. "

Bastard.

When I don't say a word, Damon flicks my clit with his thumb, the pressure causing me to let out a whimper. Quinton casts me a suspicious look, his gaze flitting to Damon.

"She's a little shy sometimes," Damon rasps, adding a second finger inside of me, slowly stretching my pussy with every debilitating surging motion. With a devilish grin, he looks at me, pitching my clit as she adds, "Go on, Emery. Tell him."

"I—" It comes out a shaky breath as my walls clench around his pillaging fingers. "I have a degree in finance and economics from Brown..."

"Really?" Quin asks, impressed. "That's a good school."

"Tell him when you graduated," Damon orders, quickening his pace to a violent speed. My legs clench, face burning as I fist the long linen tablecloth, the only thing shielding our battle. I rein in a moan. "Emery..."

"Twenty-one," I whisper, spreading my legs further apart because I need him to go deeper. I need him to go faster. I need him to fill me up until I overflow, until I leak all over the fucking carpet. "I was twenty-one when I—" He curls his finger, tapping against my G-spot, and I rein in a gasp. "I graduated."

"What else?" God, I hate him. I can barely see, barely think, let alone talk. "Tell him about all those certificates."

"I'm also..." Damon slows down but still keeps a rhythm that activates all the cells in my body. "I'm a Certified Management Accountant, and a—" His thumb finds the desperate bundle of nerves again. In tortuous circles, he massages me, not quite fast enough to make me explode but enough to keep building the anticipation of inevitable detonation. "And I'm a Chartered Financial—" I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to defuse the bombs. "Analyst."

"So you're a numbers girl," Quin muses, oblivious to dirty deeds being conducted under our table. Oblivious, or a good actor. I can't tell. I don't have the mental strength to discern his reaction. "Were you always drawn to the world of mathematics?"

"Yes," I breathe out, unable to filter my words as Damon continues to torment my insides, changing the course and speed the moment I'm close to release. "Numbers always made sense to me. I like things that make sense."

"A pragmatic woman," Quin hums, and I can barely see his face through my hazy vision. "Rare, in my opinion. I've always found the opposite gender to be more..." He chuckles to himself. "Idealistic in their approach to life..." He grins. I think. "And business."

My spine arches as Damon's fingers roam into unchartered waters, a place that hasn't yet been explored, hasn't yet been tainted with blinding pleasure. "How..." I swallow, blinking away the unfamiliar sense of rapture. "How sexist of you."

Quin's laughter fills my muffled ears. "You're funny, darling. I can see why Cavanaugh is so fond of you. Beautiful and bright."

"Yes," Damon chimes in, voice thick and low as Satan himself. "She's definitely a very special girl."