CRAVING DADDY'S BEST FRIEND

Chapter Forty three: The New York Line

Abigail Macron

The word majority didn't sound like corporate data under the high ceilings of the Zurich estate; it sounded like an absolute extraction.

Victoria didn't wait for us to put our armor back on. She gave one brief nod, turned on her heel, and walked out into the dark executive corridor, leaving the encrypted data drive glistening like a small silver weapon on the edge of the slate table.

The silence that rushed back into the room was cold, mountain-born, and heavy.

Caleb turned around to look at me, his chest still slick with the sweat of our cataclysm, his dark eyes dilated to a dangerous, lawless boundary. He didn't look down at the data drive. He looked straight into the core of my face, his jaw tight, his large hands resting flat on the stone table on either side of my hips, trapping me within his shadow once more.

"You heard her, kiddo," he whispered, his deep baritone dropping an octave into a low, gravelly growl that sent a liquid shiver straight down my spine. "You just liquidated your father’s life work with a single page signature. The New York bedrock belongs to you."

"No, Caleb," I breathed, my fingers reaching out to grip the wet, unbuttoned lapels of his charcoal shirt, pulling his massive 6'4" frame down until his mouth was bare millimeters from mine. "It belongs to us."

The admission was a match dropped into a fuel line.

Caleb let out a harsh, ragged gasp, his discipline shattering into absolute dust. He didn't care about the regulatory board, he didn't care about Victoria waiting in the corridor, and he didn't care about the global markets opening across the Atlantic. He grabbed the hem of my ruined cashmere sweater and ripped it entirely over my arms again, casting it away onto the slate floorboards.

My breasts were completely exposed to his gaze, the peaks still swollen and wet from his tongue. He fell to his knees between my open thighs right there at the edge of the dining table, his large palms cupping the soft mounds with a punishing, bruising intensity that had a jagged sob exploding from my throat.

He didn't use a slow buildup. His mouth crashed onto my right breast, his teeth catching the hypersensitive peak with a serious demanding suck that drew a broken cry from my lungs. He devours me as if the war downstairs was actively breaching the room, his tongue lashing the aureola in heavy, hot circles while his right hand slid down my stomach, his thick fingers driving straight back into my dripping, hyper-sensitized slot.

"Caleb... oh God, please," I whined, my back arching violently off the slate table, my hands scratching helplessly at the smooth stone for balance as his fingers began a rapid, deep drilling inside my inner walls.

He didn't stop. He shifted his mouth to my left breast, his rough stubble grazing the pale skin like sandpaper, drinking in my echoing groans while his thumb locked onto my c******s, rolling the tiny node with a devastating, relentless friction that had my pelvis jerking frantically against his hand. The internal coil tightened instantly, a heavy, throbbing pressure that turned the air in my lungs to liquid fire.

Before the tension could snap, Caleb pulled his hand away and stood up in one fluid, towering movement. His charcoal towel fell to the floor, exposing his seven-inch rigidity—dark, pulsing, and dripping with my own heat.

He didn't lay me down. He grabbed my waist, turned me around completely, and forced my chest flat against the freezing slate surface of the dining table, pulling my hips up into the air until I was completely unguarded from behind.

He positioned himself at my soaking entrance, his large hand gripping my throat from behind to anchor my weight against the stone, and with one downward, brutal surge of his hips, he buried his entire length deep into my pelvis.

A loud, shattered scream tore from my mouth, completely bouncing off the high concrete walls of the wing. The thickness was staggering, an absolute, unyielding stretch that filled my core to the absolute back of my womb. Caleb didn't wait. He set a savage, magical pace that got my head spinning, his heavy pelvis slamming against my backside with a rhythmic, deafening thud that shook the entire frame of the table.

The intensity was primitive, a lawless celebration of our absolute dominance over the empire. Every stroke was a deep, pleasurable execution, a white-hot friction that had the muscles inside my core clamping down around his scalding shaft in crushing spasms.

"Tell me who owns the vanguard, Abby," Caleb growled in my ear, his breath a ragged, animal rattle as his teeth nipped the skin of my shoulder blade, stamping his permanent claim into my flesh while the market tickers rolled in New York.

"We do... oh God, Caleb, we do!" I sobbed, my vision fracturing into streaks of silver and black shadow as the internal pressure reached its absolute maximum.

The breaking point hit like a physical fracture.

A sudden, blinding electrical seizure rippled through my lower belly, a violent, white-hot cataclysm of nerves that had my entire body locking into a rigid, trembling arch against the stone. My inner walls underwent a succession of deep, crushing contractions, wringing the heat from his body as a loud, broken sob tore from my lungs.

At that exact microsecond, Caleb let out a harsh, guttural roar against the back of my neck, his jaw tensing until the tendons looked like steel cables. He delivered three final, great thrusts that hit the absolute depth of my pelvis, his entire massive frame shuddering violently as he gave in to his own heavy, pulsing eruption, filling my core with a scalding release that burned straight through to my bones.

We stayed completely frozen against the slate table for a long, heavy minute, synchronized gasps the only sound left in the room.

Then, from the secure terminal on the sideboard, the encrypted satellite line began to ring. The caller ID read: MANHATTAN MAIN CLEARINGHOUSE.