#basic instinct 2

It was unfair, really, the ease in which your ambush was set, and how willful he had you saunter straight into it.

Summoned to his office well outside the hours of operation. The rough edge snagging his timbre when he called you an occupational hazard for all the mind you paid it. Long days stalking the city, and later nights holed up in his office, slaving to piece together the puzzle.

Roy Washburn wasn't a subtle man, nor a patient one. A straight shooter of objective singularity - you knew his manner, his tells. Sarcasm wielded like seduction. Crass tongue waggled silver. An uncanny knack for getting his way.

"Hey stranger." You answered the phone with a smile in your voice. "I guess if you're calling this late I shouldn't wait up for you?"

Even when he told you not, you always did. Your bed too cold and empty for sleep without his lank sprawled across the lion share.

"Was thinkin' you could stop by, actually." Even under work related strain, his voice dripped through the speaker a slinking husk.

The rhythm of your heart skipped two beats giddy. "Oh? Is everything alright?"

He chuckled. A fleeting, haughty sound well suited to his rich and creamy tonality, caramel center decadent. Lupine charisma that trickled down your spine and pooled at the base, even as it crackled distant over the line.

"Of course, lass. I just want to see you." Tone kicked down chest deep. A suggestive drawl, hot and hazy. "Don't you miss me?"

The station quiet and emptied, all save for him. Detective Roy Washburn. Stolen away from you by the mistress that was his work.

Being top-dog had its draw backs, and this was one of them.

Fine-tuned to the needs of those above him, he was who they sent when a job needed doing - and done well. Nose to the ground, persistence weaponized.

He was nothing if not persistent, and he always delivered. A job well done because he kept himself hungry.

And he was very good at what he did.

The wolf at the door. A touch arrogant, though it wasn't unearned. He solved cases, double knotted loose ends. He knew who was dealt what hand, and called them how he saw them. A regular at the table. Keen eye and razor wit. Dumb as a fox.

A smirk that came too easy. Roguish eyes that gleamed too mischievous. Hands too elegant for his line of work. Sinful in their architecture, and the fantasies they insight.

Dead ends and trails gone cold the sort of challenge to light his fire - and Roy loved a good challenge - the sort he likened to his pursuit of you. Eat, sleep, chase. And fuck. That was his cycle, and he didn't like to break the chain. Air-tight intuition and a fierce right hook. For every punch he took, an answering one was locked and loaded. Thrown just as hard and twice as fast.

He'd been embroiled in a rough one. Worked over, getting as good as he gave. Keeping him from you for days and nights on end, each melding into the other, distinction lost to the hours he clocked. A captain adamant in staying with his ship, even as it sunk his time, and the opportunity for basic physical needs to be met.

A spread of manila folders flood his desk a sea of photo copies, witness statements and post its, and you find him wading through that mess. Furrowed concentration highlighted by the glow of his monitor, brows scrunched, lips pursed frowning.

Bone deep weariness creasing him at the edges. Shoulders drawn beneath his crisp pinstripe suit jacket, and the weight of the world he carries, a position that hurts your back just to look at. Despite how he contorts over the jigsaw of his current case, his look nothing short of dismal, you can't help but smile. A heart-beat that kicks instinctive at the sight of him, school-girl thrummed and fluttering.

Even dourness he wears as something close to handsome.

Slipped the rest of the way inside his domain quiet as a wraith, you catch the door on your heel and ease it clicked shut. However faint the clink of metal, the latch catches and breaks the spell. A fawn strutting aimless into the wolfs clearing, a twig snapped underfoot.

His eyes are on you so fast you doubt in that moment he remembered his work existed at all, let alone ensnared him.

A glaucous haze of steel blue, veined red and raw with exhaustion, magnetize to your entrance. Then bright and feverish, storm swell thunderous with implosion.

The hours he keeps and the distance of his job muzzling him restrained, it's whittled down to a matter of seconds before he chews clean through.

"Good evening, detective." You loll the title around the tip of your tongue, bubblegum sticky, sickeningly sweet. Flirtation in a three syllable press against the back of your teeth. You're still clueless, woefully so, to what you've wandered into. "How're you holding up?"

Propriety fading to a spec in his rear view as you shift into his sights. Your smell on the air warping his rationale warm vanilla sugar frosted. His world narrows down to you. Chest pulled taut, his tie a noose.

For a gentleman is no more than a patient wolf, and chivalrous is one such accusation he's never had to contend.

"Was Ferguson at his desk or has he gone home already?" Frustration a bed of gravel beneath his usual satin articulation. Teeth set on edge.

Cut to the chase so hard and fast you're left to stand there for a moment, reeling. Doe caught in headlights, blinking slow and dozy as you struggle to recall if he was actually gone, or if he wasn't just statue still and silent when you breezed on by to Roy's door.

A display he'd find almost adorable any time other than now. So unsuspecting it makes his teeth ache and his gums itch. Prodding his hunger, caged-beast riled. You stand there juggling fresh coffee and a bag of Chinese takeaway, the paper beginning to soak through with grease. He stares you down in the beat that follows, breath stuck in his throat, brows arched in wait. Set to pounce, your current meekness notwithstanding.

"Uh- no, I don't think I saw him out there."

It was unfair. But fairness counted for very little when you knew better.

Heedless, you indicate what you assume to be the point of your late-night appearance and lift the bag. Your smile small and ingratiating. "Brought your favorites." Lilted chipper and fawning. Your attention strays to the mess on his desk en-route to the clock face, hung above. Deductions that stir your habitual fussing - if you don't do it, no one else will - "You must be hungry."

He unfurls his height in full, haggard though imposing. It lengthens a stride that devours distance, consuming paces twice the amount of one average. He's around the other side of his desk before you've even finished speaking.

"Ravenous."

Deft hands disentangle yours from the gifts you come bearing, only to deposit them without much care to join his case file, relegated to similar abandonment. You're here now, after all. A new target acquired, his blood-lust pivoting. Confusion wrinkles so cutesy on you he nearly tackles you to the ground, lunging to get a taste.

Roy's descent is sudden; a summer storm brewed out of the blue on a clear midday. He swallows your squeak with an answering growl as teeth clash, and lips meet sloppy.

Large palms bombard your figure, dizzying assurance in the calloused digits that sweep up your back and thread your hair. Taking charge as he's want to do, he's a force of confident push and pull. Manipulation dressed like finesse, large hands and longer fingers positioning just how and where he likes you, and you melt under it. Under him. Warm and pliant. Mold-able and open for his choosing and taking.

His scent overwhelms, heady and indelible. Suffocating in masculinity, a smoky musk spiced oak moss and cardamom. Traces of the man, raw and unrefined, layered beneath cheap cologne and stale nicotine. Old, burnt coffee on his breath, bitter and black. Still detectable even through the wad of spearmint he's chewed to tasteless pulp over the long hours spent confined to these four walls.

One hand breaks course from stroking down your spine to grope your bottom. A generous palm full, he kneads your dreamy sighs to ragged moans, rolled against his tongue. Scraps for an appetite whet. That caged thing in him prowling and testing his restraint for give.

His assault only hastens as he maneuvers you around, herding you until the desk edge catches your low back. Only once he has you pinned helpless between his body and it, does he break the kiss. Desire a tidal wave to sweep you up and trap you under, you surface with a gasp for air, though Roy doesn't allow himself such luxury. One-track mind orders his busy hands to your skirt, hiking the fabric up your thighs. Growing frustrated at the long, loose length of it that keeps slipping through his fingers and back into his way.

He settles instead to paw at the thin outline of knickers he traces through them. His wants made plain. You claw him in kind, the room spun out of control around you. A tall, lean anchor dead center in the swirl.

"Off." His rasp impatient, the demand whipped and stinging, snapped rubber-band sharp. "Off. Now."

Voice honey-glazed, so dulcet it's obscene. So airy and gentle it distracts from the filth it often coats. The dominance that hides inside, biting and pressing. Elbowing the constraints of professionalism. Astringent aftertaste cold medicine sweet. Artificial black cherry, candied on the tongue, shuddering tart once it hits.

"Roy-"

"I'm not asking." A borrowed kindness in the warning you're past the point of deserving. He's scruffed you about the nape like an unruly pup caught nipping his heel. Disobedience chastised in the squeeze of spidery fingers. Your body, the traitors thing it is, proves its fealty to Roy before you, as it slackens limp to his firm hand. Guiding you up to tip toes as he leans down, noses bumping. "I want you to strip them off for me."

His subsequent release is just as abrupt. Sending you startled and stumbling back on your heels with a clack. The detective watches for your obedience, hawk-eyed. His restraint present in memory only.

Shaking fingers fish up your legs beneath your skirt, and drag your panties back down mid shin, the sides hooked by an index finger each.

"Atta girl." Whisper quiet adoration that buckles your knees. He catches your stumble - he always does - a display that spreads a lazy smirk tugged up at the corner.

No more than a scrap of clinging rayon cut to pattern lace, you have one foot stepped out before a wide palm juts forth. Turned open, cupped in wordless request.

You comply in similar fraught silence, and your cheeks dial from a modest blush to something furious.

"All dolled up for me, eh?" Insufferable cockiness twitches to a grin, lewd and lascivious. He's catnip to you when he's like this, so irresistible it's unbearable. A hand played against you as he rubs the scant garment between his fingertips. Halting with a sharp breath when his investigation proves fruitful, and he finds the gusset slippery. "I see I've ruined another pair of knickers."

His eyes burn through yours. A lurid cobalt smolder that flickers and gleams frenzied as he brings them to his face and takes a deep inhale. Scenting his prey up close and personal, unmistakably fresh and female - the aroma sends his eyes back, an indecent sound seething from the seat of his chest.

He stows his prize in his slacks with all the ceremony of pocketing loose change. Hands wrap your waist before you're snatched from your feet and dropped to his desk. Sending confidential records scattered. His pen cup tipped over, the few to fall out rolling across the surface. His lamp nudged precarious to the edge by your hip.

Unbothered to clear space himself, he assumes whatever gets caught in the crossfire will make itself scarce once he gets to rattling you proper. Desk-top casualties clattering to the ground as you wriggle and writhe. His hunger for you metastasized to starvation, ugly and unrefined. A desire that hurts. Splintering through him inside-out. Insatiability gnawing like shrapnel lodged deeper with every beat of his heart. His handling quick and jerking in appropriate agitation.

Skirt wrangled and bunched around your hips, knees pried open and guided apart. His stare falls to the mess webbing across your folds, smeared sticky within the hollows of your thighs.

Roy Washburn drops to his knees before you.

Broadloom carpet thin and punishing on his older joints. A click and a grunt, all the mind he pays as they catch the full brunt of his dead weight, dropped like rock to riverbed. Settling himself in for an extended stay; your first release likes to take its time, and he's in no rush. The journey is his destination, and he'll make himself right at home between your legs. Invited by the wet warmth leaking out of you. Never has he felt more obliged by such an offer.

The picture of you bared flush and puffy drains him of all strength. The fight in him quieted by even just the hint of slick. Discomfort no more a blip on his radar with the sight of you spread hypnotic for his observation. His look tweaks like a wounded man trying to mask his agony, but he licks his chops. Anticipation salivating. A low, libidinous rumbling up the back of his throat from his belly.

"This all for me?" He's pleased and it slips through his sharp teeth, whistled long and low, the pitch making you squirm. "Jesus fuck-ing Christ what a mess."

"Roy." A weak mewl of attempted protest, quivering to ball yourself up and hide from his appraisal. But oh no, that won't do. That won't do at all.

Unchecked greed and a quick draw, you jump when his fingers dig into your hips and force them open. Full on display, no amount of shifting is able to cover even an inch of your aching apex. Puckered peachy and glistening in the dim office light.

Exposed to the air and his white-hot scrutiny, you shiver and pout. He groans.

No time to waste, he bullies his way between your legs, shouldering your hips even wider. Until the joints twinge and the muscles burn through with a dull pinch. Head cocked and gaze fixed to the dew of your petals, he sways a little where he's knelt. Onset wooziness of blood-rush from one head down to the next.

Easy, old boy. He thinks in response to the nag of his length, straining against his inseam. You'll have to wait your turn.

"What a pretty sight." Stuck somewhere deep inside him, then shakes loose and rushes out in a heavy sigh. It's the closest he's ever come to reverence, your sex the only religion to which he's subscribed. He's not devoted, but indulgent. Gluttony without shame. Selfishness somehow gilded pious with how earnest he pursues. He shakes his head, his breath misting against your sopping heat. "You poor little thing. I mean just look at you, droolin' all over yourself like this."

All faux doting, Lancashire drawl spooled silken. Cruelty in how bold his leer forces your compliance. Delighting in how bashful he's colored you. Sparing no preamble, he steals his first taste. Prisoner of his grip and eye contact alike, as he works a flat, forceful stripe of tongue along where the throbbing is most intense.

He tastes your whimper just as much as he hears it. A shrill invocation the weight and shape of his name. Raw, as if he'd reached down your throat and pulled it free by hand. You toss your head back, breaking contact without express permission. His displeasure tuts.

"Eyes on me, love." Syrup glazed, thick and sticky on his tongue. Affection in the pet-name, his mouth hovering at your center sours the suggestion of romance. His smirk widens crooked - dangerous as one who knows the game well, and disregards the rules. "I want you to watch me eat this darling cunt of yours until you're unable to see through your tears."

The strength of the threat alone makes your eyes water, croaking a hushed; "Jesus." It's all your mind supplies.

He licks his lips preparatory. "Your cryin's not gonna stop me this time."

Signature bad cop-bad cop routine laid on charm thick, the silver streaked seas he has for eyes drag you in and hold you under, a gaze that drowns. His head dips and he blows on your folds, playful. A puff of air to rev you good and squirming. An excuse to dig into the meat of your hips until the grooves of his fingerprints are leftover in the skin.

"I'll make you a deal; if you're good for me, I'll reward you." He wiggles the fingers of one hand in emphasis, but you huff. Exasperation girlish enough to make a smile crack his face wide. You knew once he got started, his tongue wouldn't yield to share even with his own fingers.

"You're a bastard." A hot moan glides through your lips. Roy purrs like you've praised him.

"A bastard who licks your pussy like it's sacred."

Diving in nose first, he laps you hungry beast brazen. Huffed breath, and eager gliding muscle, velvety and limber. Suckling audible, groaning into your lips as they pucker swollen to his instigation. Bestial sounds of guttural approval penetrate alongside his relentless tongue. Forever hungry.

He is so very good at what he does.

You tell him so, or rather your body does on your behalf. Coherence leaves you. Reduced squealing and twisted under his mouth, every inch of you stained rosy. Tongue-tied to voice anything more complex than a whine. He's nothing if not thorough, though only due to his own greed. Twice as impatient and mean. The tip batters and flicks until clarity dissolves from your vision. Interrogative swipes of the muscle, you tug his hair and dig heels at his hunched back, but it hits him like a pebble lobbed at a stone wall for all it accomplishes.

He doesn't ease, he doesn't slow - he doesn't stop. Singular focus and the insistence of a blood hound caught on your scent, if anything your resistance eggs him on. Your pleas for mercy strangled hitched and sobbing as he wrestles you with a maw clamped to your cunt.

His grasp prevents your hips from gyrating against his face, from shying away from the chase of his tongue when the pressure builds too much, too fast. Unable to ease the speed of climax to something gradual, digestible. Roy holds you still and defenseless to his battery. Wiry scruff scratching and a mouth ruthless in pillaging, he has you careening towards a finish you're not ready to reach this soon.

The pit of your stomach clenches hard and low. A tremor possesses your left leg, thumping jack-rabbit wild, the violence increasing as he burrows flush and snarls.

The ebb and flow that had been needling at your peripheral then smacks you like a rogue wave. Joints locked, body seizing rigid above him. Color and light pops solar flare blinding behind the back of your lids. Your tongue stalls, unable to form even his name. All you can do is fall to pieces. Blindsided by the intensity, wailing something pathetic and unintelligible.

The bastard between your legs has the audacity to grin into you. Victory curled wolfish against your abused throbbing.

When your vision is returned to you somewhat intact, you find his self-satisfaction aimed your way, crinkled and glittering. Tufts of short auburn hair stick out on end from where your fingers tugged them erratic. Disheveled and smug.

And if it isn't the most devilishly toothsome you've ever seen him, even if only from the eyes up.

"Didn't make me work very hard for that one, did you?" His tongue clicks disappointed, but he couldn't be more impressed. Wrenched apart and flooded over in record time, all from his clever tongue lashed incessant. "Got another for me, pretty girl?"

The aftershocks aren't given a moment to deescalate once he starts up again. The tip of his tongue tracing in deliberate strokes, reminiscent of his full, God given name flowing in cursive fluidity. Turning your roused stimulation against you, as the wicked muscle cleaves your tender folds apart and begins sawing.

"Oh God - Roy please-," strangles out of you, the words shredding themselves jagged on the broken glass of shattered vocal chords. "I c-can't... -I can't-!"

The ridge of his nose nudges its prominence to the soreness of your bud, over-eager. "You can, and you will." Lips kiss swollen and messy. You're dripping down his chin, and dark in his mustache. Pupils bubbled over and spilled across the stormy pigment, a void of black blotting out the blue. "You're done when I tell you so."

He takes pause - a moment borrowed long enough to put you back into your place, and not a second more. Lips unfairly plush on a man like him, they seal back around the swelled bud of your clit and suck hard. A cheeky swirl of his tongue to echo the tattered scream it rips out of you.

Your spread thighs his confessional, he laves into you his transgressions. Sins of the past heavy and smothering. He loses himself in you, peaches and cream addictive. Heaven-sent distraction for the less-than-ethical lecher he is. Wants and needs from the darkest recesses of the self, he's unable to give them voice, so he huffs them into you instead. Rumbling penitent into your quivering sensitivity without mercy. Seeking to ease his burdens in where you've blossomed for him, lush and fragrant and his. All his.

Either a blessing or a curse, his nature is an obsessive one, and carnality was no exception. Another eruption tears through you not long after, a scorch that blisters, though he's too engrossed notice. To grace you with snark parading as bedroom talk.

You're weeping through the sweeps of his tongue, diligent and unyielding as the man himself. Nails rake his scalp to no avail. You'd have to hook a finger in the corner of his mouth to break his latch, and even then he'd just swoop right back in as if he'd never been interrupted in the first place. His unwillingness to let go a dog with a bone, any attempts to tug it away has him growling around the mouthful of his spoils.

He pries himself away only to take a much needed breath, and his true admiration for you makes a break for it.

"Fuckin' hell you taste amazing." Coarse sincerity suggesting he hadn't meant to let it loose. Didn't mean for you to catch on to just how whipped for you he is. Uttered devout against your plushness like a dirty secret he never meant to expose. Coaxed out of hiding by your ambrosia. Teased from him by how your body yields malleable to his whims. Unquestioning. Trust so absolute it would be nauseating if he was a humble man.

A moment tender, it was over just as soon. Two orgasms coat the back of his tongue, chin sopped and nose rubbed raw. Enough to sate the wolfs oral craving, he's now sporting raging arousal he needs somewhere to bury. The spasming of your lavished womanhood around it's own emptiness too enticing a request to stave off any longer.

Creaking joints signal he's raised to his feet, followed by a jingle you know to be his belt buckle. A bleary gazed veiled by lashes lowered, you're lured to the rip of his zipper just in time to catch his entrance.

He yanks himself out rough and impatient, hissing an expletive beneath his breath at first contact of brutish fondling to his stiff prick. Bruised in negligence and scalding to the touch. The hefty length weeps up at you from the strangle of his hold.

A 50/50 split of awe and intimidation, the juxtaposition an intoxicant to his ego.

"See something you like?" He makes a show of jerking it between your shaking legs, unable to deny himself the friction the tightness of his trousers only hinted.

Trembling and weak, he looms over you like the big bad wolf, though you don't cower. You don't flinch. You open your legs wider to urge him back between.

You catch the proud twinkle in his eye before he fists himself with one hand, and holds your thigh back with the other. Bracing his feet, he sinks forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one stroke that hushes you both. Lip bitten, brow knit, both of you holding your breath. Once he's nestled inside he chuffs like a sick dog, stilted relief gravely in his throat.

You're well primed to take him, too swollen and slick to feel that pinch you usually do when he buries this deep, but his hefty tip bottoms out with the determination of a battering ram and you convulse reflexive. It sends pens scattered, his ashtray clattering to the ground at his feet.

Fighting for breath, you're fairly certain you feel him in your lungs, crowding the inside of you like the end game is to sprawl himself within every available inch and take root. Those fingers of his, slender lethality, dexterous that borders vulgar, knot in your hair at the base and gives one sharp tug. Neck bent and bared non-negotiable.

He leers down the vulpine bridge of his nose, eye lids heavy and voice plunged in his chest. His breath saturated with your headiness, panted hot at your cheek. "That tight little snatch of yours would be worth going to war, for. Y'know that?"

Eyes slicked like a dolls, smooth as glass and just as spacey, you shiver. "Sweet talker."

His mouth quirks amused. Predatory assurance coiled low, and tight enough to spring lose. "Yeah, and you can't get enough, you filthy thing."

Flesh slapping wet flesh is soon to echo, bounding off the walls of his office in salacious harmonization with his grunts. Hits the ground running, he's not one to hold your hand. Rutting like a feral mutt, unrelenting in both rhythm and force, chasing release by way of merciless grinding. Bruising and battering your walls sore. Rolling your eyes white.

Paperclips and an uncapped pen dig into your back, and you're then aware he's laid you down across his desk, flattening himself along your front to slide in deeper. White knuckles anchoring you at a hip, his other hand slaps around the edge of the wood above your head. His next thrust stutters a moan backwards your throat, choked silent. Keening into his stuffy office as the walls bounce it back at you.

"S'too much - too much," the conviction gets lost in your slurring. "You're t-too much."

As if he could grow harder.

He taunts through a croon, honeyed voice both salt in the wound and a balm all at once. "Oh come now, I know it's not so bad. You're a big girl, you can take it."

He rides into you with the explicit goal of crippled mobility come morning. A compulsion brought on perhaps by hitting middle-age, the image of you wobbling on your feet like a newborn foal spurs him harder. Harsher. Fiercer. "That little quim always take me so well, wrapped nice and snug 'round my cock."

His crown pierces what feels like your cervix, a delicious drag against your channel that throbs stretched and agonized as he re-seats himself at a depth that erupts your sight starry. Your fingers knot in the back of his jacket, snagged on your breath as he works that spot like a suspect. Brutal repetition. Punching out gasps of his name, reedy and broken.

"R-roy, Roy-Roy!" Breathlessness wrung shrieking, he punctuates every cry with a snap of his hips, jostling each syllable broken beyond distinction. His desk lamp surrenders where it teeters, and falls to the ground with a thud.

"There she fuckin' is." His praise swells with pride. Debauched beneath him, ruddy cheeks and vacant bliss glossy in your eye and on your lips, parted around your panting. The reek of sex in competition with the sounds of it. The creaking desk, his labored breaths. Your drenched heat run through by his girth, over and over and over again. "That's it, honey - let me hear you."

Each dictation holds carnivorous weight, shot straight down to the poor swell of nerves caught pinched between where you're joined. You're burning. A lick of fire curled taut where he's rubbing your tissue raw, a tendril breaks loose and coils throughout your core. Burrowed further still to thread between your hips, his brutal tandem of pressure and pace ignites a blaze that rages through you, wildfire destructive. Mindless consumption of good sense and resolve.

The soles of your feet tingle pins and needles indicative. Tremors wrack outward from the corner of your eyes, squeezed shut. Welled with fresh tears. A crest to ripple through you, waiting at the other end of your fast burning fuse. The summary of your dynamic; dry kindling, the prosperous compliment to the lit match that is Roy.

Walls spasm tell-tale frantic against his pistoning, having abandoned any semblance of rhythm in favor of force. Speed. A tight clench of muscle seizes him, desperate in its strength. Demands for more more more made of him in every twitch. One next contraction squeezes beseeching, stuttering his pace. A cry to be driven right through the wave as it builds to crash.

"Oh - you're gonna come for me again, aren't you?" His chuckle winded, forced out of him by the responding pinch around his shaft. "Yes you are, you good fucking girl."

Sweat beads and sinews pop beneath his shirt collar, his jacket straining at the shoulders as his body tenses, his own climax imminent. Pushed closer to the fore every time he spears you. When the third and final one rockets through you, it milks around him in a stranglehold, insistence tugging he follows after.

A glancing blow, he's able to absorb the blunt force and power through, if only for mere seconds more. His stance shifts, and he straightens back upright, leveraging his thrusts anew as he encircles your waist with both hands.

It's almost instant, the way his attentions drawn to your breasts, mounds bobbing with the motion he rocks you against. A rare appearance of regret sneaks up on him, hindsight remorseful he hadn't taken the time to pry your jumper off before he tossed you on your back.

Yours arms fly above your head, scrambling for purchase along anything within reach. Spine bowed, lips parting for the a silent scream the ridge of his cockhead pulls from the new path it carves.

You're looking up at him, his silhouette dark and ferine through teary-eyed obstruction. His head tips back, release dawning in the pulsation radiating outwards the heaviness in his sack. His thrusts turn loose and sloppy, groans seething at how well his shaft slots inside. Throbbing and tender as his whole lower half feels.

"Fuck- here it comes." He grits, using your pinhole channel to rub away the bloated ache of his length, pulsing root to head expulsive. "Where do you want it?"

"In-inside-," the word blurts free. A deep-seated, primitive urge that could only be dredged up by the man hilted inside you. Before you can bring it to heel, it darts away, presenting new prey for him to hunt, something in which to sink his jaws. Too juicy and tantalizing to ignore.

He laughs, breathless. "Come again?" Pulling back to get a better look at your face, unable to believe what he's hearing. Trying to savor the phenomenon that is catching Roy Washburn off guard, you mistake it for a withdrawal, and your thighs blur in blind panic. Ankles cross at the small of his back, crushing him in a desperate leg lock. He grunts, smile lopsided. "Want me to fill you up?" He taunts. "Want me to blow it all inside you, yeah?"

"Please." Cheeks aflame, you whine, the sound small and thin. He's never before heard you quite so submissive. His scrotum contracts tighter to his body in warning.

"Go on, let me hear you." He urges. A hoarseness shadowing the intonation that betrays him. That he's just as affected by the talk as you are. "I want to hear you say it."

"Please, Roy please-," you're babbling before he's even finished speaking. Broken beyond compliance. You'd agree with your whole heart to be kept chained about the neck, and naked, under his desk if he chose that moment to ask. "C-come inside me, Roy, please I want you to come inside me-!"

A direct hit to his virility, fluffed and fanned peacock feather proud. A miracle those words alone don't smite him where he stands. A miracle he's been able to last long enough to hear them, given the week he's just endured and your absence he's suffered.

He hushes you as a means to stall himself just a bit longer. A laugh in his voice even through his shuddering groan. "I'll just bet you do, you dirty girl."

You're shoved along the length of his desk first two, then three more times, before he topples. A bitten off howl announces him, spilled hot and thick inside you. An overabundance trickling back out murky white from the span of time since when last he had relief. His frame tenses through the initial brunt, and then gives like split thread. Loosening languid as the thrumming in his cock slows, and begins to go soft.

The aftermath is comparatively quiet. Just the sounds of the breath you're both trying to catch. The faded hum of what you assume to be a ventilation unit in the distance, beyond his office door. You make no attempts to peel yourself from where you slouch. Limp, quivering, sweat-dampened. Not that you could if you wanted to - Roy's still shoved inside of you, with no moves to disengage.

Your eyes shut, drowsiness keeps them that way. You gauge by feel, waiting for the moment when he pulls out. The moment that doesn't come. Instead, you hear the rustle of paper and the crinkle of plastic.

The takeaway, not far from where your head lolls, being rummaged through. Remarkable it survived the carnage that befell much of his other belongings in your tousle. Finding what he was after, Roy sets his weight back on his heels with a grunt, though joined at your center he remains. Your lips purse in a wry grin unbidden.

With your eyes still closed, you're unable to witness the way he marvels at your post-coitus serenity, your beauty. Hair mussed, hips tender - and utter calm. Humming, and sated. By him.

He gazes upon you, and his severity softens. Hard-edges dulled. A coarseness rounded and smoothed by your stunning vulnerability like sea glass passed through ocean waves.

Relaxation a systematic progression, his knotted posture unwinds opened, and lax. The molten-core of him quelled and beginning to cool, all thanks to your release of his pressure. The taste of you still strong on his whiskers.

His free hand falls to your thigh, slung low around his hip. Residual tremors greet his touch, and he strokes them soothed. His pattern absent and fond.

"You spoil me." Roy sighs something rhapsodic. Speaking to the fried king prawn he's unwrapped and poised to devour, as if he's referring only to the food. An unconvincing ruse, you decide not to call him on it.

He feeds himself in nonchalance with one hand while he continues petting you with the other. Groused appetite demanding instant satiation, his lips smack crude as he refuels.

Breaths slowing from gallop to cant, you lay still. Boneless around his intrusion, softened but not withdrawn. Eyes held shut, your smile spreads fuller. When you speak, it emerges a quiet simper, a tad scratchy from the heights your throat had been pushed.

"Still hungry?"

You're answered first by the crunch of deep-fried breading ground between his molars.

Where prior to your quick and dirty rendezvous he was nothing shy of feral, he now seems pacified.

Afforded the sort of contentment that comes as a reward for a job well done. An overactive mind then quiet. The wolf contended, circling before his slumber.

"Fucking starved."