He didn't let her come again immediately. He edged her, stopping just as she began to crest, then starting again, controlling her pleasure completely. He thrust his tongue in until she reached her climax, withdraw and stared up at her, lips coated with her.
He was playing her body like the cello in the corner of the room—masterfully, effortlessly.
When he finally pulled back, standing up, Lauren was a wreck. She was trembling, flushed, and looking at him with an expression of pure, dazed adoration.
"Stand up," Grey said.
Lauren slid off the desk. Her legs were jelly. She grabbed the edge of the desk for support.
Grey watched her regain her balance. He walked over to the side of the room and poured a glass of water from a crystal carafe. He brought it to her.
"Drink."
She drank greedily. He watched her swallow, his eyes tracking the movement of her throat.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yes," she breathed.
"Good." He took the glass from her and set it down. "Because now, we are going to learn something."
Lauren's stomach flipped. "Learn what?"
Grey held her hand and pulled her to the other side of the desk then, he walked behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders. They were heavy, grounding.
"In the video," he said, his voice close to her ear, "you saw the belt. You flinched. You saw pain."
"It was pain," Lauren argued weakly.
"It was intensity," Grey corrected. "Elara didn't cry because she was hurt. She cried because the sensation was too big for her body to hold. You need to understand the difference between pain that breaks you and pain that grounds you."
He turned her around to face him.
"I'm going to spank you, Lauren."
Lauren froze. "What? No. You said—you said if I impressed you, you wouldn't use the brush."
"I'm not using the brush," Grey said calmly. "I'm using my hand. And this isn't punishment. This is calibration."
"I don't want that," she said, stepping back.
Grey stepped forward, closing the distance. He didn't look angry. He looked patient. Intimidatingly patient.
"You are role-playing Elara," he reminded her. "Elara trusted me. Do you trust me?"
"I… I don't know."
"You do," he said. "You just let me put my mouth on you. You let me watch you fall apart. You trust me, Lauren. You're just afraid of the unknown."
He reached out and took her hand.
"This will be slow," he promised. "I will teach you how to take it. If you say 'silk', I stop instantly. That is the rule. Do you understand?"
"Silk," Lauren repeated. Tasting the safeword.
"Turn around," he said. "Place your hands on the desk. Bend over."
Lauren hesitated. The logical part of her brain was screaming again. This is battery. This is deviant. But the way he looked at her… like he wanted to mold her, to perfect her… it was irresistible.
She turned. She placed her hands on the cool wood. She bent at the waist, sticking her bottom out. The position made her feel incredibly vulnerable, the lace stockings stretching tight against her thighs.
"Arch your back," Grey instructed. He placed a hand on her lower back and pushed down. "More. Good."
He stood behind her. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his presence. She heard the rustle of fabric as he moved.
"Breathing is the key," Grey said, his voice calm and instructional. "When the impact comes, you want to hold your breath. Don't. You need to exhale. Push the air out. Imagine the sensation flowing out with your breath."
"Okay," she whispered.
"We start light."
Thwack.
His hand connected with her right cheek. It wasn't hard. It was a firm, stinging pat.
Lauren flinched, her shoulders hunching. A grunt vibrating in her throat.
"Don't tense," Grey murmured, his hand resting on her hip, soothing the spot he had just struck. "Relax the muscle. If you tense, it hurts. If you relax, it warms. Try again. Exhale."
Thwack.
Lauren blew out a breath. It still stung, a sharp bite of heat, but focusing on the breath distracted her.
"Better," Grey praised. "Again."
Thwack.
"Good girl."
He continued. The rhythm was slow, deliberate. He alternated cheeks. He wasn't hurting her, not really. He was waking up her skin. The sting began to transform. It turned into a spreading heat that radiated from her bottom to her belly, mixing with the arousal that was already there.
"It's weird," Lauren confessed, her voice shaking. "It burns."
"Fire," Grey reminded her, echoing her words from earlier. "Fire cleanses."
He began to hit harder.
Cracck.
Lauren gasped, gripping the edge of the desk.
"Breathe," Grey commanded sternly.
"I can't—"
"You can. Give it to me. Give me the shock."
Cracck.
Lauren let out a sharp cry, but then, immediately after, a strange rush of endorphins flooded her brain. It was a high. Like drugs. A sharp, dizzying clarity. The world narrowed down to the sensation of his hand on her skin.
"Does it hurt?" Grey asked.
"Yes," she panted.
"Do you want me to stop?"
Lauren paused. Her skin was throbbing. Her heart was racing. But the feeling of being completely under his control, of surrendering her body to his discipline, was the most addictive thing she had ever felt.
"No," she whispered.
"That's my brave girl."
Grey didn't stop. He increased the intensity, pushing her, testing her limits. He molded her into the position he wanted, his hands possessing her. Every strike was a claim. Every mark blooming on her skin was a signature. Her butt cheeks reddening with each strike.
Lauren floated in a subspace of heat and sound. She wasn't Lauren Hayes anymore. She was Elara. She was the woman in the video. She understood now why Elara hadn't struggled. There was peace in the submission. There was freedom in letting someone else carry the weight of control.
After a dozen strikes, Grey stopped. He rested his heavy hand on her searing skin, massaging gently.
"You took that beautifully," he murmured against her neck.
Lauren was panting, sweat slicking her skin. She felt raw and open.
Grey didn't move away. Instead, she felt the hard ridge of his erection pressing against her buttocks.
"Now," Grey said, his voice dropping to a gravelly growl that sent shivers down her spine. "We finish the scene."
He reached around and unzipped his trousers. The sound was loud in the quiet room.
"Stay down," he ordered. "Don't move."
He grabbed her hips, pulling her back against him. She moaned noiselessly, anticipation clawing at her throat.
"Elara liked it from behind," Grey told her, his hands gripping her waist so hard she knew there would be bruises. "She liked not being able to see me. She liked the mystery of the next thrust."
He guided himself to her entrance. He rubbed the head of his cock against her wetness, teasing her, making her whine with need. He was huge and while she had only had sex with her ex-boyfriend, twice, they had never tried a penetration into her butt hole.
"Who are you right now?" Grey asked, stopping just at the precipice.
Lauren's mind spun. "I'm… I'm Lauren."
"Wrong," Grey growled. He slapped her bottom, hard.
Lauren cried out, the sting mixing with the ache between her legs.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"I'm Elara," she gasped, the lie tasting like ash and honey. "I'm Elara."
"And who am I?"
"You're my... my client," she whispered, the roleplay turning dark, turning dangerous.
He stroke, making her gasp in shock.
"I am the man who will soon wrap his hand around your throat and steal your breath away till your life slips through. Your tormentor."
What?
"Understood?"
She quickly nodded. "Yes, yes. You are my tormentor."
He thrust into her.
It was one swift, claiming motion. He filled her completely, stretching her, owning her. Lauren cried out, her head falling forward onto the cool wood of the desk.
Grey didn't go gentle. He set a punishing pace immediately. He fucked her with a controlled aggression that was terrifyingly attractive. His hands were everywhere—gripping her hips, pulling her hair, holding her down against the desk.
"Look at the screen," he commanded, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her head up.
The screen was black, but Lauren saw her reflection in the darkened glass. She saw a woman in black lace, bent over a desk, being taken by a man in cashmere sweater and pants.
"That is the evidence," Grey gritted out, thrusting deep. "That is the truth. Look at it."
Lauren watched herself. She watched her body rock with the force of his thrusts. She watched the way her hands gripped the mahogany. She watched his length thrust in powerfully. She watched her lips spread apart, soundless moans filing out.
She felt completely brainwashed. The lines between past and present, between Lauren and Elara, between lawyer and client, were gone. There was only this friction. This heat. This man.
Grey leaned down, biting the sensitive cord of her neck, his thrusts slowing down.
"You fit me better than she did," he whispered darkly. "You take me deeper. You are tighter. I like your back view better. You drive me more insane. You make me want to fuck you into next year and the next and the next, till one of us takes a last breath. You are not just Elara, you are the upgraded version."
The comparison sickened and thrilled her. He was obsessed. He was comparing her to a dead woman while inside her. It was sick. It was wrong.
And it pushed her over the edge.
Lauren came again, a violent, full-body contraction that clamped around him.
Grey groaned, his control finally snapping. He drove into her, harder, faster, his breathing jagged.
"Mine," he snarled. "You are mine, Lauren. And I will keep fucking you until that sinks in."
He spent himself deep inside her with a guttural roar, his body shuddering against her back.
He stayed there for a long moment, his weight pressing her into the desk, his heavy breathing the only sound in the room. Lauren lay still, her cheek against the cold wood, tears leaking from her eyes.
She felt used. She felt cherished. She felt terrified.
Grey slowly withdrew. He fixed his clothes with methodical calm. He picked up the tumbler of whiskey from the desk and took a sip, as if nothing had happened.
He looked down at her. She was still draped over the desk, disheveled, marked, and trembling. She slowly straightened, feeling too ashamed to look his way.
He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. His touch was gentle now, confusingly tender.
"Get dressed, Counselor," he said, his voice back to its cool, professional cadence. "We have a defense to build."
He turned and walked toward the door, leaving her alone in the wreckage of her own morality.
Lauren watched him go. She touched her stinging skin. She touched her swollen lips. And as the horror of what she had done began to seep in, a terrifying realization settled in her chest.
She didn't want to leave. She wanted to do it again.