The Red Tale: A Collection of Erotic Anthologies

The Fixer Let’s go (II)

The air in the study had turned into liquid lead—heavy, hot, and impossible to breathe. Julian’s hand was still a branded iron against Elara’s throat, his thumb tracing the frantic flutter of her pulse.

‘He’s going to do it,’ her inner voice whispered, no longer screaming for her to run, but shivering in anticipation. ‘He’s finally going to break.’

“You’re trembling, Elara,” Julian murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. The scent of him—smoke, scotch, and something dangerously masculine—swamped her senses.

“Is this the part where the brave girl realizes she walked into the wolf’s den without a weapon?”

“I’m not trembling because I’m afraid, Julian,” she breathed, her hands sliding up the crisp wool of his waistcoat to bunch the fabric at his shoulders. “I’m trembling because you’re still talking.”

A low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest, a sound that made her toes curl against the cold floor. “Careful. You might just get exactly what you’ve been begging for.”

He didn't give her a chance to retort. He moved with the sudden, violent grace of a man who had spent two years denying himself. His mouth crashed against hers—not with the gentle hesitation of a family friend, but with the starved desperation of a man who had been dying of thirst. It tasted of peat and fire, a kiss that demanded everything and promised nothing but ruin.

‘Oh God,’ Elara thought, her head snapping back as he trailed a line of biting kisses down the column of her neck. ‘I’ve started a war I can't win.’

“Look at me,” Julian commanded, his voice a jagged edge as he pulled back just enough to force her gaze to his. His eyes weren't gray anymore; they were black, the pupils blown wide with a hunger that made her feel stripped bare. “If we do this, Elara, the Fixer is gone. There is no one to clean up your mess after tonight. Do you understand?”

“I don't want the Fixer,” she gasped, her fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck. “I want you. I want the man who’s been watching me from the shadows for two years.”

Julian’s jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek. Without a word, he hooked his hands under her thighs and hoisted her up. Elara let out a small, sharp cry of surprise as he swept the expensive fountain pen and the crystal scotch glass off the mahogany desk with one brutal motion.

The glass shattered on the floor, but neither of them looked.

He sat her on the edge of the desk, his body stepping between her legs, pinning her against the heavy wood. The contrast of the cool mahogany against her skin and the furnace-like heat of his body was enough to make her vision swim.

‘There’s no turning back,’ the voice in her head said, finally falling silent. ‘You’ve reached the edge.’

“You wanted to see what’s under the leash?” Julian whispered, his hands sliding up the silk of her dress, bunching the fabric at her hips. His gaze was fixed on her mouth, his breath hitching in a way that told her he was just as far gone as she was. “Fine. Let’s see if you can handle the wreckage.”

He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers for one final, agonizing second of restraint before his hands moved with intent, claiming every inch of skin he had spent two years memorizing from across a room.

Julian’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, yanking her closer to the edge of the desk until her core pressed flush against the hard ridge of his c**k straining beneath his trousers.

Elara gasped at the contact, the thick heat of him grinding against her through too many layers of fabric. She was already soaked, aching, her silk panties clinging uncomfortably to her swollen folds.

“f**k, Elara,” he growled, voice rough as gravel. One hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back so he could devour her throat again—teeth scraping, tongue soothing the sting. “You’re dripping for me already. Two years of pretending I didn’t want to bend you over every surface in this goddamn house.”

His other hand shoved her dress higher, bunching the silk around her waist. Cool air kissed her exposed skin as he hooked a finger under the lace edge of her panties and tore them aside with a sharp rip. No patience. No gentleness. Just raw need.

Elara moaned when his fingers found her—two thick digits sliding through her slick folds, circling her c**t with merciless precision before plunging deep inside her. She clenched around him instantly, hips bucking against his hand.

“So f*****g tight,” Julian hissed, pumping his fingers in a steady, punishing rhythm while his thumb worked her c**t. “This p***y’s been waiting for me, hasn’t it? Clenching around nothing while you played the innocent daughter in front of your father.”

“Yes—God, yes,” she whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure coiled tight and vicious in her belly. Every thrust of his fingers curled just right, stroking that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. She could hear how wet she was, the obscene slick sounds echoing in the heavy silence of the study.

Julian pulled his fingers out abruptly, ignoring her protesting whine. He brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean, eyes locked on hers with dark satisfaction. “Sweeter than I imagined.”

Then he was freeing himself—belt buckle clanging open, zipper rasping down. His c**k sprang out, heavy and thick, the head already glistening with pre-c*m. Elara’s mouth watered at the sight. He was bigger than she’d fantasized in her darkest moments, veined and flushed, curving slightly upward.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t ask. He notched the blunt head against her entrance and drove in with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

Elara cried out, the stretch burning so perfectly she saw white. Her walls fluttered and clenched around the invasion, trying to adjust to the way he filled her completely—splitting her open, pressing against every sensitive nerve.

Julian groaned, low and guttural, forehead dropping to her shoulder as he held still for one trembling second. “f**k… so good. So f*****g good.”

Then the leash snapped.

He f****d her like a man possessed—hard, deep, relentless. The heavy mahogany desk creaked under the force of his thrusts, the shattered glass crunching faintly under his shoes. Each snap of his hips drove him deeper, the head of his c**k dragging against that devastating spot inside her until she was sobbing with pleasure.

Elara’s hands scrabbled for purchase, knocking over more papers as she clung to him. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him harder, faster.

“Look at me,” he snarled again, one hand wrapping around her throat—not choking, but possessive, thumb pressing just enough to make her pulse jump under his touch. “Watch who’s ruining you.”

She forced her eyes open, meeting his wild, black gaze. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his jaw clenched so tight she thought it might crack. The elegant Fixer was gone. This was the man beneath—savage, starving, claiming what had always been his.

“Julian—” she gasped, the coil in her belly winding tighter, hotter. “I’m—f**k, I’m going to—”

“Come,” he commanded, voice like velvet-wrapped steel.

His free hand slipped between them, thumb circling her c**t in tight, frantic strokes. “Come on my c**k like the greedy little slut you are for me.”

The orgasm crashed over her without mercy. Elara shattered with a broken cry, her walls pulsing and squeezing around him as wave after wave ripped through her. Her vision whited out, thighs shaking, body arching off the desk.

Julian didn’t stop. He f****d her through it, hips stuttering, pace growing erratic as he chased his own release. “That’s it—milk me. f**k—Elara—”

With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep one last time and came hard, flooding her with hot, thick pulses of c*m. His body shuddered against hers, hips grinding as if he could push even deeper, marking her from the inside out.

They stayed locked together, panting, trembling in the aftermath. Julian’s forehead rested against hers, his breath mingling with her own. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the faint tick of the antique clock on the wall.

Then the burner phone chirped.

Hours later, or perhaps only minutes—time had ceased to exist in the dim amber glow of the study—the heavy silence was shattered.

A sharp, electronic chirp erupted from the desk. It was Julian’s encrypted burner phone, the one he used only for her father’s most sensitive 'business.'

They both froze, Elara’s heart hammering against her ribs as the reality of the world outside the room came rushing back. Julian’s eyes cleared, the predatory haze replaced by the cold, calculating mask of the Fixer in a heartbeat.

He reached out, his hand hovering over the vibrating phone. The caller ID displayed a single, terrifying word: DON.

Julian looked at Elara, his thumb brushing a stray hair from her damp forehead. His expression was unreadable, but the danger in the room had shifted from passion to pure, cold survival.

“Don't move,” he whispered, his voice turning back into a blade. “And for the love of God, don't make a sound.”

He swiped the screen and brought the phone to his ear. “Yes, sir. Everything is quiet here. The estate is secure.”

Elara watched him lie with chilling perfection, knowing that the man her father trusted most in the world was currently standing between her legs, covered in the evidence of his betrayal.