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Intimate. “Shh.” One finger pressed against my lips. “No more talking unless I tell you to. We wouldn’t want security to hear the prim little library assistant moaning like a whore when they finally check the building.” The crude word sent a shameful thrill straight to my core. I was already wet, embarrassingly so, just from one kiss and the way he was looking at me like he planned to devour me slowly. He stepped back slightly, eyes never leaving mine, and reached for one of the leather-bound books on the nearby table. It was an old edition of The Decameron, Boccaccio’s tales of lust and sin during the plague. One of the restricted volumes he’d borrowed before.

His hand guided it, steady and firm, her body clenching around it as she trembled from his touch. “Read,” he said, stepping back, his eyes dark and hungry. “And keep going.” She grabbed the diary, her hands shaking, and opened it, her voice unsteady. “I want him to push me onto his desk,” she read, her hips rocking against the toy as he held it inside her. “I want him to spread my legs and take me, to make me scream his name.” He groaned again, louder this time, his knuckles white as he gripped the desk. “Fuck, Eva,” he said, his voice raw. “You’re so perfect, fucking yourself for me. Move it faster. Show me how much you want it.”

You must read, so you'll know what we know. Loving books as she did, Madeleine had soon forgotten her disappointment. The private library was a wondrous hoard of knowledge, and as arousing in its way as the long, shared hours of yesterday. Each book was a classic of pornography. As she read — and read and read and read - Madeleine soon grew both learned and fevered. Every picture seemed to remind her of the touch of Delrina’s lips, or the way Laurelina’s fingertips could seek out, and find, the most discreet and receptive of pleasure-nodes, then tantalise them to the very edge of madness. Every line or paragraph of uncensored prose seemed to conjure up the taste of Nadia’s sweat.

My fingers slipped inside, through soft curls, and found a scorching, drenched heat. "Keep going," I breathed, my middle finger sliding through her slick folds, circling her entrance. "Nicholas... Nick... don't... I mean..." But her protest was weak, her body arching into my touch. "Keep talking. Tell me how to make her come." "You can... talk to her... tell her she tastes good, that you love it... mash your tongue onto her clit... pulse it in time with your fingers... keep doing that... just like that... yes..."

I was so wet, so soaking wet down there. As my fingers glided all over my pussy, I could hear the erotic noise my pussy lips made as I rubbed them together; as they came in contact, the squelching sounds of my pussy lips sounded so fucking sexy, the feeling was intense, it felt so good, the sensation was too much, it was mind-blowing.

“Imagining sucking them while you rode my cock under the desk during a board call.” Elena arched into his touch, gasping. “Then do it.” He yanked the bra cups down, mouth closing over one nipple in a hot, wet suction, tongue flicking hard and fast. Teeth grazed just enough to send a jolt straight to her clit. His other hand slid between her thighs, found the soaked lace, pushed it aside. “So fucking wet,” he muttered. “This pussy’s been dripping for your boss all day, hasn’t it?” “Yes,” she rocked shamelessly against his fingers as two thick ones plunged inside her, curling perfectly against that spongy spot. “Every time you looked at me. Every time you said my name.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. The order was degrading, obscene. And it set a fire in my belly. I leaned forward, closing the distance. The first touch of my tongue to the cool, wet wood was salt and bitterness and him. I moaned, the sound involuntary, vibrating against the desk. I licked a slow, deliberate stripe through the spill, gathering it into my mouth. The act was so submissive, so filthy, that it coiled heat low in my core. I could feel Jonathan’s seed trickling from inside me, a parallel intimacy.

“Oh, Your Majesty… you’re so big… fuck—” I froze, cheeks burning. The erotic novels I secretly read had never prepared me for this. The raw, unrestrained sounds made something low in my belly tighten. I pressed my thighs together, trying to ignore the sudden slick heat between them. I didn’t dare knock. Instead, I stood there, heart hammering, imagining what was happening on the other side of that door. The moans peaked, then abruptly stopped. I stared at the vial in my hands and forced myself to knock twice.

My nipples hardened instantly under his touch, and I arched my back, a soft moan escaping my lips. Jake joined in, his hands gliding over my hips, spreading the oil across my flat stomach and down to the tops of my thighs. "Fuck, you're so smooth," he growled, his breath hot against my ear. "I could do this all night." Their hands worked in tandem, massaging every inch—my arms, my sides, the sensitive undersides of my breasts—until I glistened like a forbidden offering. The oil made my skin hypersensitive, every stroke sending sparks straight to my core. My pussy throbbed, already wet and aching for more.