The Last Name I'll Ever Take

The Secretary's First Task

The penthouse smelled of cold rain and expensive sin. It was a glass cage perched high above the Dublin skyline, a place where Cormac Blackwood came to shed the suit and reveal the monster beneath. I stood in the centre of the marble floor, my legs still trembling from the boardroom encounter, the damp weight of my ruined lingerie a constant, erotic reminder of my submission.

I didn't have to wait long. The private elevator hummed, and Cormac stepped out. He had discarded his jacket and tie, his white shirt clinging to the sweat-slicked muscles of his chest. He didn't say a word. He walked straight to the bar, poured a double whiskey, and downed it in one go.

"Your first task, Lana," he said, his voice a low, predatory rasp that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Since you're so fond of secrets."

He walked toward me, the heavy thud of his boots echoing on the stone. He stopped so close I could feel the whiskey-scented heat of his breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver blindfold.

"Put it on," he commanded. "And strip. I want to see exactly what I've bought with my silence."

My heart hammered against my ribs, my boobs straining against the torn velvet of my dress. I took the silk, my fingers shaking as I tied it behind my head. The world turned to ink. My other senses sharpened instantly—the hum of the air conditioning, the scent of his skin, and the terrifyingly steady sound of his breathing.

"The dress, Saoirse. Now."

I reached for the zipper. The fabric pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but my sheer black lace lingerie. I felt his gaze like a physical touch, a slow, burning crawl over my skin.

"The lace, too," he whispered, his voice right at my ear. "I want you raw."

I reached back, unhooking my bra. My boobs spilled free, the cool air of the penthouse making my n*****s peak into hard, sensitive points. I pushed my panties down my hips, stepping out of them until I stood completely naked and sightless before the man who had ruined my life.

I heard the rustle of his clothes—the heavy thud of his belt hitting the floor, the slide of his trousers. Then, a large, calloused hand gripped my waist, his thumb digging into the soft flesh above my hip.

"Kneel," he growled.

I sank to my knees on the cold marble. I heard the rasp of a zipper and then the heavy, blunt weight of his c**k brushed against my cheek. It was hot, pulsing, and massive—a thick, vein-mapped length that smelled of musk and power.

"You want the ledger," Cormac said, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back.

"Every inch you take is a page of the truth. Use that mouth, Saoirse. Earn your revenge."

I didn't hesitate. I opened my mouth, my tongue flicking out to taste the salty, pre-come bead at the tip of him. He let out a sharp, hissed breath as I took him in. I swirled my tongue around the broad, sensitive head of his c**k, savoring the way he twitched in my grasp. I began to slide my mouth down his length, my throat stretching to accommodate the sheer girth of him.

Each act was a slow, deliberate worship of his power. I used my hands to stroke the base of him, my fingers tracing the heavy weight of his balls while my mouth worked rhythmically on the shaft. Cormac’s breath became ragged, his hands tightening in my hair until it was almost painful.

"f**k," he groaned, his hips beginning to thrust reflexively into my mouth. "You're a natural-born sinner, aren't you?"

He didn't let me finish. He pulled me up, spinning me around and bending me over the back of the velvet sofa. My sightless world was a blur of sensation—the soft fabric against my chest and the sudden, brutal invasion as he guided his c**k to my entrance.

He didn't use any lubricant other than the slickness of my own desire. He pushed inside me in one long, relentless thrust that made me cry out, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. He reached around, his hands finding my heavy, swinging boobs, his fingers pinching my n*****s with a rough intensity that sent lightning bolts to my core.

The process was primal. He began to hammer into me, the wet, slapping sound of his groin hitting my backside filling the silence. Each thrust was deeper than the last, his c**k hitting my cervix with a dull, pleasurable ache that made my vision—even behind the blindfold—explode into white light.

He began to vary the rhythm—three short, shallow stabs followed by one deep, agonisingly slow drag that felt like he was trying to turn me inside out. I was a mess of local heat and desperation, my hips rising to meet every blow, my fingers digging into the velvet upholstery.

"Tell me whose you are," he demanded, his voice thick with the coming release.

"Yours," I sobbed, the word a confession and a curse. "I'm yours, Cormac."

He let out a roar, his movements becoming a blur of speed and friction. He gripped my hips so hard I knew the bruises would be black by morning. With one final, devastating thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, his body shuddering as he filled me with a hot, thick torrent of come.

I collapsed against the sofa, gasping for air, the blindfold damp with my tears. He stayed joined to me for a long minute, his chest heaving against my back, his heart a frantic drum against my spine.

He finally pulled out, the air hitting my wetness with a chilling sting. He reached down, untying the blindfold.

Light flooded back. Cormac stood over me, looking down at my trembling, naked form with a look of terrifying possessiveness. He reached out, his finger tracing a line of his own spent fluid down my thigh.

"The ledger is in the safe behind the painting," he said, his voice cold and flat once more. "But remember this, Saoirse: every time you look at those files, you'll feel me inside you. You didn't steal the truth. I gave it to you. And now, I own the ghost of the O’Malley empire."

He turned and walked toward the bedroom, leaving me naked and broken on the floor, holding the key to his destruction—and the chains of my own obsession.