Chapter 364 - Taking Her on the Table
She looked up at him. "So I made a decision." Her eyes went flat and direct. "Don’t ruin my decision by making me want to reverse it. Is that clear?"
The look on his face — she catalogued it the way she catalogued everything — was not what she had expected.
He was looking at her with the expression of a man who has done a calculation and arrived at a result he found genuinely interesting.
His cock, unhelpfully, had gotten harder.
He moved.
The hand in her hair pulled.
She made a sound that was not dignified — a short, sharp cry pulled from the base of her throat by the sudden upward drag — and then she was standing, her chair scraping backward, his grip repositioning her with the casual efficiency of a man rearranging furniture.
"What are you—"
He turned her.
Her lower back met the edge of the table.
He pushed.
She went over it — the cold smooth surface of the tabletop receiving her torso, her palms landing flat, a cup rattling against its saucer, the half-drunk coffee going nowhere — and the cry that came out of her was partly indignant and partly the shock of being moved by something that had simply decided to move her without consulting her structural opinions about the matter.
"What are you—"
His hand went down.
She felt the fabric of her skirt lift — the hem rising up the back of her thighs, the rush of bakery air on skin that had been covered — and her operational voice said neutralize this now and her body did not cooperate with the operational voice because the operational voice had been losing ground steadily since 6 AM.
His finger hooked into the waistband of her panties.
"Stop." She pushed back against the table with both palms. "That is not—I didn’t agree to—stop—"
The fabric slid down.
Cool air. Then the warm, inevitable attention of his eyes on what the panties had been covering. She felt the look like a physical thing — the dark hair, the wet, honest evidence of everything she had been internally denying for the last forty minutes, all of it visible and present and no longer deniable by any operational framework she could construct.
"What are you doing." Her voice had lost some of its flatness. Not from fear — from the indignity of the situation and the warmth running down her inner thighs and the fact that the evidence was out and visible and he was looking at it.
He set his cock against her.
The head pressed between her pussy lips — not entering, just resting, the thick blunt warmth of him parting the hair, finding the wet heat underneath, and she felt every nerve ending she possessed light up in a single clean wave.
"Don’t—"
He entered her.
There was no gradual. There was no slow.
He plunged.
One thrust. Full. The thick head splitting through the wet lips, the shaft following, inch after sudden inch of dense heat filling her from behind, the length of him driving directly to the deepest part of her and then past it, and the sound she made was not dignified and was not something she had planned to make and was completely beyond her authority to stop.
PHAAACKK!!
"AAAHH—"
Her breasts — free of any real constraint under the loose morning shirt, heavy and full, the kind of weight that had its own momentum — swung forward with the impact and smacked the table surface below them, both nipples dragging cold tile, and the gasp that followed was layered with too many inputs to sort.
Her eyes had gone wet immediately.
Not from pain — or not entirely from pain. From the depth of it. From the place his cock had just reached that she had, in forty-four years and various configurations of intimacy, never had anything reach before.
Vibrators. She had used vibrators — sensible, practical, sized appropriately for a woman who had very little time and very clear requirements. The best one she owned was — she had the thought involuntarily — shorter than this. Significantly narrower than this. The best one she owned would have been a warmup for this.
Her womb felt the knock.
Her eyes fully watered.
’What.’ The thought arrived small and completely honest. ’What have I done.’
He grabbed her wrists.
Both of them. One hand, pulled behind her back, a clean efficient restraint that her training knew how to break from and that her body did not break from because her legs were currently doing something embarrassing, which was staying spread, the traitor muscles refusing to close.
He used the wrists like a handle.
Come on. His voice above her, warm, completely in control, the voice of a man conducting a thing he had planned and was executing. "Weren’t you going to serve this sex demon?"
"Pull it out." Her voice came out cracked at the edges and she hated it cracked and could not unfold the crack. "Pull — it — out now — "
He thrust again.
The table rattled. Her breasts swung and dragged. The coffee cup fell on its side and the small sound of it was completely lost in the larger sound of her.
PAAAH!!
"AAANGHH—"
The head of his cock hit the deepest part of her again and her eyes — she felt it happen, felt the loss of their proper focus — rolled.
Not all the way. Just enough. Just enough that the bakery ceiling above her became briefly abstract, the familiar geometry of her own shop dissolving at the edges while the full, insistent reality of his cock in her womb rearranged her sense of what was inside and what was outside.
’No.’
The thought came in Gareth’s voice — not literally, not his words, just the maternal shape of him in her mind, the specific weight of being his mother — and the guilt of it arrived layered over everything else and made the tears run properly.
’I told myself this was for him.’
’I made a decision and I told myself it was clean and operational and—’
He thrust a third time.
Her pussy clenched around him without her permission.
’—and now I am bent over my own table and I am clenching and Gareth is going to call back and I am—’
"Haah — " The sound came out broken and small and wet. "Stop — I’m — please — "
"Please what." His voice was not unkind. It was the voice of a man who wants the sentence finished.
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Because the honest answer — the answer her body had already submitted while her mind was still arguing about the agenda — was not stop.
Her internal voice, small and furious and utterly clear:
’What have I done.’
And below that, quieter, the thing she was not going to say out loud:
’Why does it reach that far.’
’Why does it reach somewhere I didn’t know was there.’
’Why is my body doing this to me in my own bakery at seven in the morning over a man I have known for forty minutes who fell through my ceiling.’
He pulled back slowly.
The drag of him withdrawing — partial, not complete, just enough to feel the shape of the retreat before the next advance — was its own specific problem, the nerve endings she hadn’t known existed now very much awake and very much tracking every millimeter of him.
Her thighs shook.
"Don’t." She said it to the table surface, to herself, to the entirely unhelpful warmth spreading from her core outward in all directions. "Don’t you dare."
He pressed forward again.
Her eyes rolled the rest of the way.
PAAH!
"HAANH—"
The table moved two inches across the tile.