The CEO's Runaway Mistress

Chapter 7

His erection pressed hard against my ass, demanding through the thin fabric of his trousers.

The intimacy was suffocating—a cruel parody of tenderness. Nothing important. The words carved deeper into my chest with every possessive touch.

His fingers dipped lower, tracing the elastic band of my borrowed yoga pants, sliding toward the curve of my ass.

Familiar territory. Claimed territory. But today, his touch felt like violation. Every nerve screamed. Pull away. Run. But

Sofia’s warning echoed: Clean breaks. Where would I run? His penthouse was my cage. His money paid for everything—the MBA, my family’s survival, the air I breathed. Trapped in gilded silk.

“Angela,” Jonathan murmured, his voice rough velvet against my neck. One hand slid up beneath my hoodie, fingers splaying possessively over my bare stomach.

The other pressed harder against my ass, kneading the flesh through the soft fabric. “You’re trembling.”

His thumb rubbed slow circles just below my navel—a gesture that once ignited fire, now only ice. “Tell me what you need.” The command was velvet-wrapped steel. Testing. Always testing.

My breath hitched. I closed my eyes. Let the darkness swallow me. Five years.

Five years of his hands claiming every inch of me. Five years of whispered Spanish endearments tangled in sweat-drenched sheets.

Five years believing I was more than the transaction. And today? Reduced to nothing beside a woman in cream silk.

Suddenly, a raw, reckless fury surged—hot and thick, drowning the ice in my veins. Fine. If I was nothing, then let me be nothing. Let him taste the emptiness he created.

I twisted in his arms, fast and sharp. His grip loosened in surprise. Before he could react, I dropped to my knees on the cold marble.

My hands flew to his belt buckle, fingers fumbling with the polished leather and cold metal. The click echoed like a gunshot in the silent penthouse.

“Angie—” Jonathan’s voice held a note of startled confusion, laced with… approval? Anticipation? He didn’t stop me.

I didn’t look up. I yanked his trousers and briefs down in one rough motion. His c**k sprang free, thick and already flushed, bobbing against my cheek.

The scent of him—cedar, salt, power—filled my nostrils. Familiar. Poisonous. I grabbed the base with one hand, squeezing hard enough to make him hiss.

My other hand gripped his ass, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath fine wool. Possession. Reclamation. Mine. Even if it was a lie.

Then I took him into my mouth. Not the teasing licks or slow worship he loved. No. I swallowed him deep, forcing my throat open until his cockhead bumped the back, until tears pricked my eyes.

Gagged. Choked. But I held him there, my nose buried in the coarse blonde hair at his base. Nothing important? Let him choke on it.

Jonathan gasped—a sharp, punched-out sound. His hands flew to my head, fingers tangling in my dark curls. Not pushing me away. Pulling me deeper. "¡*Dios!*" he groaned, hips jerking forward instinctively. "Just like that, *mi puta*... take it..."

The crude Spanish pet name—usually whispered in dark moments—stung like acid. Proof. I pulled back just enough to drag air into my burning lungs, saliva slicking his shaft.

Then I slammed forward again, gagging violently this time, throat spasming around him. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

My fingers dug harder into the swell of his ass, nails scraping through the thin fabric of his briefs. *Mine.* Even if it wasn't.

He cursed again, low and guttural. His hips began a relentless rhythm, f*****g my face with short, brutal thrusts. "Yes... fuck... greedy little star..." His praise was ragged, breathless. Possessive. Hypocrite.

Each thrust scraped my throat raw. Each groan vibrated through my skull. I could taste his betrayal—bitter and metallic beneath the salt and musk.

Suddenly, his grip tightened painfully in my hair. He hauled me off him with a wet pop. I gasped, coughing, spit dripping from my chin.

His blue eyes were dark, dilated pools of lust—and something else. Triumph? Cruelty? He looked down at me kneeling on his cold marble floor, disheveled and crying. A trophy at his feet.

"Turn around," he ordered, voice thick with command. "Hands on the glass."

My body obeyed before my mind caught up. Muscle memory. Five years of conditioned submission. I pushed myself up on trembling legs, stumbled the few steps to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the glittering city.

My palms slapped against the cool pane, fogging it instantly with my breath.