His Forever Books 1 - 21

2. His Whims, Book One-2

But he’s not finished yet. He pounds his huge c**k into me, going deeper on every thrust, opening me up completely. I scream into his hand, as I come again, harder this time, heat like molten lava suffusing my whole being.

He grunts as he slams into me one last time and his hot semen fills me.

"So you remember me now?" he asks breathlessly, his c**k buried inside me to the hilt.

I nod my head like some schoolgirl eager to please. It elicits a cocky grin from him, but the light in his eyes is far from playful. It's dangerous, and it makes me wish he'd f**k me again. My cheeks are flushed, my hair's a mess, but I'm glowing.

He pulls out fast, making me gasp as I stumble against the sink like his c**k was the only thing holding me up.

He zips up his pants and much of the magic is broken. What am I doing? How could I let him just take me like that?

I yank down my skirt and bend over to pick up my panties, but they're ruined.

"I'll enjoy thinking of you with no underwear underneath that skirt," he says, smirking at me. "And the piece of me I left behind inside you."

I straighten up and pull up my tights, still trying to come up with something to say.

But I can't, and he's already leaving. I'm not about to yell after him.

I have an interview to finish. An impossible task, seeing as I can't hold on to any thought long enough to understand it.

I peer around the restaurant after I finally manage to pull it together and exit the bathroom. Mark's nowhere to be seen. What just happened was so insane, I'm starting to think it wasn't even real. But I can still feel the imprint of his c**k in my p***y, so I know it was.

"I do not have all day for this, Ms. West," Milton says as I take my seat at our table.

I don't like his condescending tone.

My heart's thumping, and adrenaline is pumping through my veins, anger rising inside me like heat from a well-stoked fire.

"I have proof that your bank is still using drug money to fund projects," I blurt out. It's an exaggeration. I don't have proof, but I have a very strong suspicions.

"As I already told you, all ties were cut with Martinez and his organization," Milton says and waves the waiter over. "This interview is finished. I do not give my permission to print any of it."

"I don't need your permission," I mutter. "Don't you even want to refute the proof before I publish the story?"

Milton pulls his wallet out of his breast pocket and slams a twenty on the table.

"I didn't think the Wall Street Journal would print just any gossip." He's red in the face, and a vein is pulsing in his temple. "I'd be careful, if you want to keep your career."

Then he gets up and strides out.

I blew it. Royally. All I worked for these last eight years might have just gone down the toilet.

Sam, my editor, told me not to antagonize Milton, and that's exactly what I did. I'm not ready for the big leagues. That's what Sam will say now.

If Mark hadn't come along, did what he did to me in the bathroom, I would've handled this more professionally. But like some rookie i***t, I let my anger at Mark, and the presumptuous way he took what he wanted from me, come out in my interview with Milton, and now I'll pay the consequences. With my job. Which is also, incidentally, my whole life.

I haven't felt the urge to cry this strongly in forever. But I do now. So I pack up my things and practically run out of the restaurant, already seeing my whole life imploding before my eyes.

Mark

She was so willing, yet so resistant. I loved bending her over that sink, f*****g her like she belongs to me. Like she has no say in the matter. My stomach is still cramping up from my need to do it to her over and over again.

But this is Nicole. I’ve loved her since we were children. And the feelings I have for her are pure and gentle. In as much as anything about me is pure and gentle. I don't want to break her with my twisted desires. Yet this is who I am now, and if I pursue her, that's exactly what will happen. One way or another. Every woman close to me ends up hurt. Or dead. And despite the fact that I have never desired a woman more, I won’t risk that happening to Nicole.

That fear was the only reason I left her on Christmas Day. The only reason why I didn't return her calls.

I'm not quite sure how I hoped to stay away from her in NYC, but I meant to try.

That resolve lasted until the second I saw her. Then all those good intentions went out the window.

She's returning to her table now, on very shaky legs, her otherwise porcelain skin still flushed. She checks, but doesn't see me where I'm standing over by the bar. Yet I see her clearly. The skirt she’s wearing hugs her ass tightly, leaving little to the imagination, and her full breasts bounce with each step she takes, sending my c**k throbbing all over again.

Meeting her back home in Oregon after 12 years of no contact was the single best thing to happen to me. As was f*****g her on Christmas Eve.

But she wants love, and I can’t give her that. I need submission and control.

I can see her eyes flashing from across the room as she asks Milton questions. Can see his face grow purple as he probably can't answer them. Nicole is powerful, she's independent, and my c**k grows even harder at the thought of bringing her under my control and taming that wildness of hers.

But she's not submissive. Never was. So I can't even try. Hell, I wish I'd taken her ripped underwear as a souvenir today, however sick that sounds. Because I must stay away from her.

So I turn away and order a double vodka, downing it in one long swallow. It burns away some of my pent up tension.

When I turn again, Milton is exiting the restaurant in a huff, and Nicole is sitting in her chair like she's frozen.

Her interview was a bust. I can read that clearly off her face.

And I had a lot to do with that.

But I can fix it. Milton owes me. I toss some money onto the bar and walk out after him. He’ll give Nicole her story, whatever it is. I'll make sure of it.

Nicole

I should get back to the office; explain to my editor about what happened. Milton probably called him to complain already, since my phone's been vibrating constantly. But I don't even check it, let alone return any of the calls.

I need to get home, shower and change. Get my head around what just happened.

My apartment is still very cold, so I crank up the heat and set the shower to the highest temperature. I can still smell Mark's cologne on my jacket and my skin, can still feel his semen inside me. And a part of me wants all that to keep. But I'm not the type of woman who lets men dominate her. Or use my body for their own pleasure. My p***y clenches and my n*****s throb at the thought, marking the lie.

I never knew submitting to a man's pleasure would feel so exciting. Mostly because the guys I've dated so far didn't quite know what to do with a woman.

I step into the shower, gasping as the hot water touches my skin.

I wasn't that woman. Not until Mark came back into my life this Christmas.

Now I'm the woman who came twice, while getting f****d in a public restroom by a man who only did it to stake his claim of me. And I want him to do it again. And again. I want his strong muscular arms pinning me down, as he takes me rough and hard, like I exist only for his pleasure.

My hand moves down to my c**t at the thought.

But no.

I am my own woman. Strong and independent. And I don't need a man to complete me. Especially not a cocky, arrogant bastard who thinks he can just take anything he wants from me wherever and whenever. And then drop me again without so much as a kiss goodbye.

I scrub my skin furiously, getting all traces of Mark off my body. He may be hot and I may be in love with him, but he stepped over the line with me for the last time today. First, he ignores my calls, and then he f***s me in a bathroom like I'm some cheap w***e.

No. I won't even give him a second thought.

I have to get to work, have to fix this argument with Milton so it won't destroy my career. And the last thing I need is Mark messing up my mind any more than he already has.

"Don't you pick up the phone anymore?" Sam yells at me across the office as I enter it.

All typing stops abruptly, and even the phone conversations going on seem to quiet down. I feel my face grow hotter with every step I take towards Sam.

"I'm sorry," I mutter as I squeeze past him into the office.

Whatever yelling he's gonna do at me should be done in private. Too many of my so-called colleagues would like nothing better than to hear me get chewed out by the boss.

"You're sorry? Well, you should be. But it's not enough," Sam says and slams the door, sending the plastic blinds rattling against the glass. "I don't know what happened, but Milton was furious. Says we can't print anything, or else."

“Or else what?” My indignation overshadows the humiliation of the situation. "All I did was point out the dirty money he's still using to fund the Imperial project. We agreed that was to be the angle of my article. Maybe I could've chosen my words more carefully, but that's about it. I still would've asked those questions. You told me to ask them. You know my proof is solid."

"Yeah, you should've chosen your words more carefully.” Sam sighs and rubs his eyes, sending the bags under them jiggling. He’s about my Dad’s age, and sometimes I worry that he works too much. “You're not experienced enough. I should've sent someone else. We’ll have to bury the story for now."

He sits down with a groan.

"Bury it? But it's the hottest news to hit in months. Career making stuff."

He glares at me, his eyes so bright I'm surprised they're not shooting sparks. "It's career destroying stuff, Nicole. Milton has a lot of pull—"

"I didn't realize the Wall Street Journal was that kind of publication," I snarl, glaring right back at him. "My information is solid, whether he wants to comment on it or not."

Sam adjusts the collar of his turtleneck. He always wears a black turtleneck and a black pair of pants. When I first met him at college, I used to wonder if he ever even changed. But he explained that deciding what to put on each morning was a waste of brainpower. That sounded so cool to me. So ingenious. I hate to see him this beat down by a dishonest banker.

"Do you have a source? Do you have definitive proof?" he asks.

I open my mouth to answer, but it would be "No" on both, so I don't.

"That's right, you don't. Which is why we can't print any of it, especially now," Sam answers for me. "I'd hoped you'd be able to get him to say some incriminating stuff today, but like I said, you're not quite ready."