Page 86 of Brutal

He groans, thrusting his hips up until he’s buried completely inside of me. “Fuck, Mimi,” he mumbles against my lips.

I kiss him again before he can continue. “Shh,” I tell him, not wanting to ruin this moment that’s surprisingly sweet despite it all.

His thrusts are slow, tender almost, as he fucks up into me. I feel in control as I ride him, and he lets me have that even now.

Time slows, stretching on in a leisurely, endless rhythm — of moans and thrusts, of what I wouldn’t have ever expected he was capable of until the night at the yacht.

I reach down to rub my clit, but he catches my hand and does it for me, his rough fingers taking over in that surprising way he does when he wants to bring me pleasure. I can tell he’s close, and the closer he gets, the less patient he gets.

He waits anyway, and I can see the strain on his face as he holds back his climax until I’m clenching around him. His orgasm follows quickly, and he groans as he buries his face against my neck until he seems to recover and sits back upright.

Then there’s only silence, only the meeting of our gazes as we stare at one another like something has finally clicked into place between us.

Drake opens his mouth and says, “Mimi, I lo?—”

I place my finger on his mouth to stop him. “Hey. That’s way too soon for us. Let’s figure our shit out first.”

Disappointment crosses his features, and his shoulders slump a little. I can tell this isn’t how he planned for this to go — if he planned for it at all.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice going rough again. “Come on. We can make that fucking salmon you got. I’ll even eat some carrots if you make them with the butter sauce again.”

I nod, and I wonder about the twinge in my heart. But I let it fall away with the rest of my emotions until I feel calmer, more in control of myself.

One of us should be in control, right?

CHAPTER 22

Drake

I stare at the pictures of sex toys on my computer monitor, scrolling through them and dismissing each and every one. She won’t agree to be tied up. She won’t agree to the spreader bar. She won’t agree to any of this.

She won’t agree to my feelings.

Fuck.

I angrily close the window, which is lucky because Caroline enters without even fucking knocking.

“Sir, you’re late for the meeting in 502,” she says. “They’re waiting for you.”

Of course I’m late. Of course they are.

I get up with a grunt, making sure to lock my computer down, and stalk toward the door. I pause there, though, wracking my brain and unable to come up with the information about this meeting. “What meeting is this?”

“It’s with one of the development teams,” Caroline says. “They’re presenting the user metrics for the past three months.”

Fuck, right. I’d asked for that information, too, because a few months ago I’d wanted to pinpoint… something. User experience, retention, something that I would have been in charge of ten years ago and has now been delegated to someone I don’t trust to do it right.

Except now I don’t even remember what the point of the meeting was.

I almost tell Caroline to cancel the meeting, except then I’ll be left sitting alone in my office again. Despite whatever I’m supposed to be doing, I know I’d just browse more adult stores and fantasize about all the things I’m not currently doing with Mimosa.

My limbs feel like lead as I trudge my way to the elevator for the meeting.

Of course all conversation stops as soon as I enter the meeting room.

“Sorry about the wait,” I say, trying for cheerful. “Was on a call with… eh, doesn’t matter.” I take my seat at the head of the large oval meeting table.

The two juniors who lucked their way into being presenters stand taller and start the presentation.