Conor turns his head up and down the table, then pauses as he catches my eye. He hums thoughtfully.
“Kat, can I talk to you in private a sec?”
I don’t appear to have a choice. He stands and saunters over to the corner of the room as soon as he asks. Carla starts to whisper to her dad.
Their eyes are on me. I’m curious. So, slowly, I draw my chair back and meet Conor at the back of the room.
Conor is leaning against the frosted glass wall, arms folded across his chest, his expression contemplative as he watches me.
“I want you to know,” he says quietly, for my ears only, “that I mean everything I’m about to do, regardless of this fucked-up situation.”
“What do you me—”
Conor crashes his lips to mine. I reel backward in shock, then find my fingers clinging to his shirt for balance. His hands wind around my neck, and my back is pushed up against the glass partition. My shirt hitches upward, the naked skin at the base of my spine tasting the cool touch of glass. Without thinking, I kiss Conor back.
This is crazy. All I can think is that, right now, I’m being ogled by a roomful of people — and my one response is not disgust or shame, but the desire to somehow see their faces. The kiss is hot and passionate, and part of me wants to put on a good show for our audience.
The other part, with a heavy heart, understands Conor’s masterplan. I don’t want him to leave Royal Element — and I certainly don’t want to be the reason why. But Conor has chosen me for this.
Go out with a bang. Literally.
I moan loudly — a minor embellishment — and, feeling brave, drag him closer to my body. Conor readily accepts my touch, his fingers tangling in my hair. I’m trapped between Conor and the glass. There is nowhere for me to go, and I feel the stirrings of Conor’s erection against my hip.
I dimly wonder if this is going too far.
My mind answers, “Too far” was about ten minutes ago, and they started it.
So I wrap my leg high around Conor’s waist, needing to feel his cock thickening against my clit. The friction is unbelievable and I throw my head back against the glass with a thud, but it’s the pure exhibitionism that gets me off. Under my hooded eyes, I see their faces but not their expressions. All I can do is experience the thrill of it, responding to Conor’s well-kissed lips with equal fire.
Seeing myself on film being kissed by Seth and tongue-fucked by Leon, has done something to me. There is a strange confidence to me, as well as a new and rapid obsession with sex.
I want to do more. I want to drop to my knees and take out his cock; I want to suck it down to the root and swallow his come or frantically pull up my shirt and have him climax on my naked chest.
I want to lie back on this floor — or perhaps the Merksworths’ desk, before their very eyes — and be fucked mindless by Conor’s stiff cock. I want Conor on his back, and to ride him like it’s my job, everyone watching in close fascination as I rock up and down his shaft as his thick cock enters me over and over.
Our standing position is tasty — but it’s not enough. I want release and I’m growing wetter by the second, begging to be filled.
We gasp for breath, parting slightly. I look Conor in his eyes, the rest of the room fuzzy and inconsequential: my world has shrunk rapidly to me and him and the nerve endings in my clit.
“More,” I pant into his open mouth, sounding delirious. I kiss him soft and slow, our tongues sloppy against one another. “Please, God, more.”
Conor looks wary, as though he already thinks he’s gone way too far. But something about my debauched self must be difficult to resist; with a quiet whine, he kisses my sweaty forehead and the messy strands of hair swept into it. And then his arm snakes over the softness of my belly, his fingers diving beneath the waistband of my jeans.
My breath hitches. Is this... is this real?
When his gentle fingers touch my clit, my entire body jerks in response. The moan I give is one of pure unadulterated lust. Conor’s cock springs against my thigh and he rocks his hips against me almost imperceptibly, his eyes fluttering closed. He rubs my clit with bold fingers, stroking my soft folds and spreading my wetness all across me. There are noises that I’d never thought about, but which sound deafening in the quiet of the room — the quick, slick squelching of Conor’s fingers as he plunges them into my wet slit, his hand tight against the crotch of my jeans.
Sparks course down my body, chasing everywhere Conor touches.
I’m so close. Everything about this situation is enough to make me so close for the rest of my life.
“That is enough.”
The voice is cold but too far in the distance, and with one quick twist of his fingers, Conor makes me come. Orgasm hits me all over my body, as though I’m pinned to the glass wall by my own volition. My hips buck wildly, and the desperation of it all is enough for Conor’s ragged breath to hitch, his eyes screwed up in concentration — and I watch in open-mouthed fascination as I witness my first male orgasm. He shudders against me, hugging me tightly with his free arm, and kisses me forcefully on my mouth. I’m breathless, lungs begging for air I can’t give because I’ve forgotten how to breathe. All I can do is feel as tremors rack my body, and I kiss Conor because somehow it’s the only thing that matters. It’s the only thing that feels right.
Conor leans against me, dragging his trapped arm out of the enclosure of my jeans. My eyelids are still fluttering as I catch my breath, but I watch, captivated, as Conor stares at the liquid glistening across his hand. He locks his gaze with mine. Then, slowly, Conor raises his fingers to his mouth and kisses them, before he slides them past his lips and sucks each one clean.
My stomach jolts with pleasure and I swallow, my own mouth dry. The eroticism of this act transports me back to the night I was caught by him, when I tried to run away and he caught me by my wrist and kissed my hand and licked every one of my come-stained fingers in quiet bliss.
This is like then, but we’re no longer two voyeurs separated by a doorway and our fantasies. Conor kisses me softly, and I taste myself on his tongue. He leans against me, his body comforting, and I welcome that fierce pressure as my arms wrap languidly around him.
Part of me expects to wake from the dream I must be in. Or, if not a dream, then we’re actually in bed; Conor’s calm, contented expression must be the way he looks post-orgasm as we snuggle against one another, heads on pillows and transported to other fantasy lands.
“Sit down.”
My knees feel like they want to collapse.
I did not just orgasm in front of other people in some sterile office boardroom.
I did not just orgasm at the hands of a member of a boy band in front of a sadistic billionaire businessman.
None of that happened. Right?
Don’t think, I tell myself. Don’t even try.
Conor whispers to me, “Are you okay?” and I nod, though I’m too dazed to tell if it’s the entire truth. I’m not sure a head movement can accurately capture the nuance of my thoughts at this moment in time. “I don’t know if you want to stick around, but I’m about to walk out of here.” He kisses my forehead tenderly. “I can’t be around these people any longer.”
I look up at him, my eyes wide. “You’re leaving?”
He gives me a small smile. “I’ll be right there waiting for you on the other side, Princess.” Conor kisses my mouth again, soft and chaste, as his fingers stroke down my cheek. He holds my gaze with serious eyes. “Thank you,” he says meaningfully.