I Broke His Rule to Get Near Him, So the Billionaire Made Me Count novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Fourteen

On the desk he counts her through fourteen, and she goes on her knees for him; he will not fuck her yet, and at the guard desk her written warning carries a line in his pen: "Fifteen tomorrow."

His palm landed across the seat of my work pants before the word was out of my mouth.

It was not hard.

It was exact, and it went straight through the canvas into me.

"Two," I said, before he could tell me to.

"Good," he said behind me. "If you lose the number, we start over."

"I won't lose it."

"Then keep going."

The second one landed on the other side.

"Three," I said.

My palms were flat on his desk and my braid had fallen over my shoulder onto the blotter.

The tanks outside the glass shone white on the black water, and I could see the whole yard from there.

I could see my own reflection too, bent over, with a tall man standing behind me in his shirtsleeves.

"Four," I said.

"Five."

On six, his hand stayed.

It spread across the seat of my pants, warm and heavy, and squeezed.

"Look at the window," he said. "Tell me what you see."

"You," I said.

"What am I doing?"

"Waiting," I said.

"Not for long," he said.

He unbuttoned my pants with one hand and pushed them down my thighs with my underwear.

The cold air of the office hit me where I was already hot.

I heard him breathe in.

"Seven," I said, because his palm had come down again, and this time there was nothing between his skin and mine.

It stung, and the sting turned straight to heat.

It ran up my back and down between my legs.

I had not expected that.

I had expected to hate it.

"Eight."

"Nine."

I pushed back into his hand without deciding to.

He laughed once, low, in his chest.

"Is that what you wanted, Lozano?"

"Ten," I said.

"That isn't an answer."

"Ten, Mr. Brockman. Eleven."

His hand came down slower now, and each blow was followed by a long pass of his palm over the place he'd struck.

I was breathing through my mouth.

I was wet, and I knew he could see it.

"Twelve," I said, and my voice wasn't mine.

"Thirteen."

He stopped with his hand cupped between my legs, not moving, just holding me there.

"One more," he said. "One for each of the fourteen steps. Say it so I can hear what you've learned."

"Fourteen," I said.

The last one was the hardest.

I cried out, and then I was shaking against the edge of the desk, with his hand sliding down into the wet between my legs.

"Fourteen steps," he said, "and you're soaked."

"Don't."

"I'll do whatever I want." He pushed two fingers into me, slowly, all the way. "You said yes with your hands on my desk."

I made a sound I could not stop.

"There it is," he said.

His thumb found my clit and rolled over it, and his fingers curled up inside me, finding the place that made my knees give.

"Oh, God."

"Good girl. Hold on to the desk."

I held on.

He pushed my shirt up with his free hand and found the clasp of my bra and opened it.

My breasts dropped free into the cool air.

He cupped one, heavy in his palm, and rolled the nipple between two fingers until I whimpered.

"Sensitive," he said.

"Shut up," I said.

"Make me," he said, and he pinched, just enough, and my whole body clenched around his fingers.

He worked me in long, steady strokes, deep, then almost out, then deep again, and with every one his thumb circled harder.

My forehead dropped to the wood.

I forgot the camera.

I forgot the gate and the names and the speech I had practiced for eleven weeks.

All I knew was his hand, his breath on the back of my neck, and the heat gathering low in me.

"Please," I said.

"Please what?" he said.

"Don't stop," I said.

"I wasn't going to."

He pressed his thumb down hard, and his fingers drove up, and I came.

It broke over me in long waves, and I rocked back onto his hand, gasping into the blotter.

He kept his fingers inside me until the last of it passed, and then he drew them out slowly.

I heard him lick them clean.

My legs gave a little, and his other arm came around my waist and held me up.

"Good," he said, in my ear. "That was very good."

I turned my head.

His eyes had gone dark and fixed, and his jaw was tight, and under the white shirt his chest was moving fast.

He was hard.

I could see the heavy line of it against his trousers, an arm's length from me.

He had not touched himself once.

Something came loose in me.

I had come up those stairs to make him see me.

What I saw was a man with iron control, holding it with both hands, because of me.

"More," I said.

I heard it come out of my mouth, and I hated how it sounded, thick and wanting.

"No," he said. "Fourteen is what you earned."

"I didn't ask what I earned."

I pushed off the desk, stepped out of the pants around my ankles, and turned around.

He watched me.

I put my hands on his belt.

"Lozano."

"You said the rule has a price."

I unbuckled it.

"I'm paying," I said, and I went down on my knees on his carpet.

His hand closed in my braid.

It wasn't to stop me.

It was to hold me still while I opened his trousers and took him out.

He was thick and hot, heavier in my hand than I expected, already wet at the tip.

I held his eyes and licked it off.

"Christ," he said.

I took the head into my mouth and sucked, and his hips jerked once, and the hand in my braid tightened.

I took him deeper.

I felt his thigh go hard under my other palm.

I worked my mouth up and down his cock, wet and slow, and I used my tongue along the underside.

He made a low sound in his throat.

"That's it," he said. "Look at me."

I looked up.

His face had lost its calm.

His mouth was open and his eyes were fixed on mine.

"Take it," he said. "All of it. Good girl."

I took it.

I let him push to the back of my throat and held there, breathing through my nose, with my eyes watering.

I hollowed my cheeks and sucked hard on the way back, and he cursed.

His hips began to move in short, shallow thrusts, and I let him fuck my mouth.

"You're perfect," he said, hoarse. "Do you know that? Look at you."

His whole body shook.

"Mari," he said.

I had told him Lozano.

I had never told him my first name.

He had read it off my file, but it went through me anyway.

I pulled back, then took him again, faster, with my hand working the base.

"I'm going to come," he said. "Tell me if you don't want it."

I held his thighs and kept going.

He came with a rough shout, deep in my mouth, one hand fisted in my hair and the other braced on the desk.

I swallowed it all.

He let go of my braid slowly and stroked my cheek with two fingers.

His hand was shaking.

I knelt there, with my lips swollen and my knees sore, and I felt more powerful than I had in ten months.

He drew me up by the arms and sat me on the edge of the desk.

He kissed me then, deep and slow and unhurried, for the first time.

He tasted of himself.

I put my arms around his neck.

When he lifted his mouth, his forehead rested on mine.

Then his hands slid under my thighs, and he laid me back on the blotter, and a stack of papers slid onto the floor.

"You paid," he said. "Now I'm going to."

I lay across his desk with my shirt rucked up under my arms and my bare skin on the cool wood.

He pushed my knees apart and went down on his knees in front of me.

His mouth closed on me, and this time there was no hurry in it.

He licked me open, slow and wet, and sucked my clit between his lips, and I arched off the desk with a hoarse cry.

"Quiet, Lozano," he said against me. "There's a guard on the floor below."

I clapped a hand over my mouth.

He hummed, and the vibration went through every nerve I had.

I fisted my other hand in his hair and held him there.

He pushed two fingers into me and curled them hard, and I was gone.

"Count them," he said, lifting his head. "Quietly."

"One," I gasped through my fingers. "Two. Oh, God."

I came on a muffled shout, with my heels digging into his back.

He gentled me through it with long, soft strokes of his tongue.

He stood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He looked down at me sprawled across his desk, and he smiled.

"That was for the count," he said.

He drew me up and held me against his chest while my breathing slowed.

"Your clothes," he said.

"I know," I said.

"Get dressed, Lozano. Go home. Sleep."

"And what about you?" I asked.

"I won't," he said.

He said it plainly, as a fact.

I dressed with my back to him, and my hands were not steady on the buttons.

In the lobby, the guard who had brought me up was sitting at his desk with a manila envelope.

"Mr. Brockman called down," he said. "It's your written warning."

I opened it outside under the lamp.

It was a typed form, dated and signed at ten past three.

Under his signature, in pen, in square handwriting, he had added a line.

Fifteen tomorrow.

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