Chapter 738 Sable Revenge (r-18)

The tip of my tongue traced the outer curve of her ear (not her neck) in one slow, wet drag. She jerked in the chair, a sharp inhale slicing the silence, her thighs spreading a helpless inch under the table.

"Eros—" My name tore out of her like a plea and a curse.

I hummed, low, approving, and let my breath fan hot across the damp trail I'd just left.

"Shhh. No talking yet. Just feel what happens to a powerful, married, forty-something woman when a teenager decides she doesn't get to be in control anymore."

One fingertip—only one—touched the hollow just beneath her ear, then began a torturously slow descent. Down the column of her throat. Over the frantic flutter of her carotid. Along the razor edge of her collarbone.

Every inch I traveled, her skin flushed deeper, rose blooming under porcelain like spilled wine.

When I reached the first button of her blouse, I paused.

Circled it with the pad of my finger.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Never undoing it.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate pulls, nipples so hard against silk I could see the exact shape of them—thick, aching, begging to be twisted until she sobbed.

I traced lower—between her breasts, over fabric, stopping just above where lace cupped soft, heavy weight. I pressed—light, proprietary—feeling the thunder of her heart against my palm.

"Feel how hard these pretty nipples are?" I breathed, letting my thumb sweep in a lazy arc that came within a millimeter of one rigid peak—close enough that she felt the air move, not close enough to give relief.

"Imagine what my mouth would do. Imagine my tongue circling, slow at first… then flicking… then sucking until you couldn't breathe. Until you forgot you're supposed to be the one in charge."

Her hips rolled—small, helpless, shameless—grinding against the leather seat like she could find friction if she just tried hard enough.

A soft, needy sound escaped her, raw and feminine and nothing like the boardroom queen who'd laughed at me twenty minutes ago.

I let my hand drift lower still—over the trembling plane of her stomach, stopping just above the waistband of her pencil skirt. My palm hovered, heat bleeding through fabric, close enough that she felt it between her thighs like a physical stroke.

Her legs parted another inch on their own.

I dropped my left hand to the armrest, caging her completely now, and let the full, rigid length of my cock press against the back of her chair—slow, deliberate—so she felt every thick inch throbbing for her.

"That's what you do to me, Sable," I growled against her ear. "You make a seventeen-year-old so fucking hard he could split you in half right here and still not be satisfied."

She whimpered—actually whimpered—and her thighs fell open wider, skirt riding high enough to reveal the lace tops of her stockings and the damp shadow between them.

I still didn't give her my fingers.

I still didn't kiss her.

I just let my right hand drift lower—one slow inch—until the heel of my palm rested directly over her mound through the skirt. Heat. Wetness.

The frantic pulse of her clit radiating through layers of fabric like a heartbeat.

"Your heart is pounding so hard," I whispered, voice velvet dragged over broken glass.

"Tell me, Sable… is that fear? Or is it the fact that your married pussy is already clenching around nothing, begging for the teenage cock you've been fantasizing about since the first time I looked at you like I was going to ruin you?"

A soft, involuntary sound slipped from her throat—half gasp, half moan.

I hummed, low, approving, and let my breath fan hot across the damp trail I'd just left.

My right hand descended again—this time sliding down the center of her body, over silk, over trembling stomach, stopping just above the waistband of her skirt. Palm flat. Heat bleeding through fabric straight to her clit.

Her legs parted—barely an inch—but enough.

Enough for me to feel the wet heat radiating from between her thighs like a furnace.

"Spread them wider, Sable," I whispered against her lips. "Show me how dripping wet this little revenge made this perfect, neglected, cunt."

Her thighs fell open obscenely, skirt bunching at her hips, the wet spot on her lace panties now visible—dark, shameless, spreading.

I pressed down—hard—just once, grinding the heel of my hand in a slow circle that dragged the seam of her skirt and the soaked lace against her swollen clit.

Her head fell back against the chair, eyes rolling shut, a broken, guttural moan spilling from her throat.

I pulled my hand back just for her to feel the absence before I let my palm drift lower once more—slow, deliberate—until the heel of my hand rested just above her mound, pressing lightly through the fabric of her skirt. Not on her clit. Not yet. Just enough pressure that she felt the promise of it, the threat of it.

Her hips bucked—tiny, involuntary, shameless—chasing friction she wasn't allowed.

"Look at you," I breathed, lips brushing hers with every word. "A grown woman, CEO of a media empire, married, powerful… and you're about to cream your panties because a teenager is barely touching you."

She whimpered—actually whimpered.

I pressed harder—just once—grinding the heel of my hand in a slow, deliberate circle that dragged the seam of her skirt against her clit.

Her head fell back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut, a broken moan spilling from her throat.

"That's it," I growled, circling again, harder, feeling her clit throb desperately under the pressure. "Let me feel how bad you need my cock. Let me feel how much you want me to shove every inch inside you and fuck you until the only thing you remember is how it feels to be owned by someone half your age."

Another circle. Slower. Crueler.

Her hips bucked wildly now, riding my hand like she was already fucking me, breath coming in short, ragged sobs.

I leaned in until my lips brushed the corner of hers, still not kissing, just breathing her in—the taste of her desperation thick on my tongue.

Another circle. Harder.

Her thighs spread wider on their own, skirt riding up, exposing the lace tops of her stockings.

I still didn't give her my fingers.

I still didn't kiss her.

I just kept that slow, merciless pressure—circling, pressing, owning—until her breath came in short, ragged pants and her hips were rolling in tiny, frantic thrusts against my hand.

Until she was right there.

Right on the edge.

"You're right there, aren't you?" I whispered. "Right on the edge of coming in your own boardroom like a desperate, dripping slut because a teenager decided to play with what's between your legs."

She nodded frantically, tears of pure frustration gathering at the corners of her eyes... "Make me cum, Eros~ make me cum at last..."

I pressed harder—once, twice—grinding mercilessly—

And then I stopped.

Pulled my hand away completely.

Left her gasping, empty, trembling.

Her eyes snapped open—dark, wild, furious, pleading.

I smiled, slow and cruel, and stepped back one deliberate pace.