Chapter 95: The Exhibit***
The heavy mahogany bar table groaned as Ryan finally stilled, his weight pressing Zara flush against the polished wood.
Her chest heaved in jagged, uneven gasps, the blue silk of her slip dress tangled around her waist, soaked in sweat and the slick, messy evidence of what they had just done.
She lay there, completely boneless, her eyes glassy and unfocused. The pristine, untouchable supermodel had been entirely dismantled in less than twenty minutes.
Ryan pushed himself back, slipping free with a wet, heavy sound.
The cool air of the suite rushed over his skin. A thick string of his semen trailed down her inner thigh, gleaming in the muted stadium light leaking through the tinted glass.
Zara whimpered at the sudden loss of contact, her hips twitching upward instinctively.
Her fingers curled against the wood, her nails scraping weakly.
"Don’t get comfortable," Ryan murmured, his voice a dark, grating scrape against the silence.
He didn’t give her time to recover. He grabbed her by the hips and hauled her off the table.
Her legs buckled the second her bare feet hit the carpet, the shock of the virgin stretch leaving her muscles trembling and useless.
Ryan caught her easily, wrapping an arm around her waist, and marched her toward the center of the room.
He dumped her face-forward over the back of the massive leather sectional.
The cold, buttery leather squeaked under her skin. Her upper body sprawled across the cushions, her ass jutting up into the air, the dark blue silk pooling uselessly around her ribs.
Ryan stepped up behind her. He didn’t bother with preamble. The friction was already there, a hot, dripping mess coating her thighs. He gripped her hips, aligning himself, and drove straight back in.
Zara screamed—a loud, raw sound that tore her throat—as he buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
"Fuck," she sobbed, her fingers digging into the leather cushions, her knuckles stark white.
"Shhh," Ryan commanded, his hips snapping back and slamming forward.
The sound of his pelvis cracking against her ass echoed like a gunshot.
The angle forced him deeper, hitting walls she didn’t even know she had. Her body jolted with every impact, her spine bowing sharply.
Ryan reached down, his broad hand connecting with her right cheek in a stinging, visceral slap. The sharp crack made her gasp, a bright red handprint blooming instantly across her pale skin.
"When that picture of us came out, so many angry messages flooded my inbox," Ryan growled, his breathing heavy, matching the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips.
He slapped her again, harder.
Zara moaned, her hips grinding backward, desperately chasing the sting and the deep, relentless pounding.
"If they could see you," Ryan rasped, his hands sliding up to grip her waist, thumbs digging brutally into the soft flesh above her hipbones. "Bent over a couch in a luxury box. They’d go mad."
"Yes, only you gets to see this side of me," she cried out, her voice cracking, completely devoid of pride. "Yes, Ryan, fuck—please—"
He punished her for the admission, picking up the pace until the heavy sectional actually shifted an inch across the carpet.
She was sobbing his name, a chaotic, feral mess of sweat and smeared makeup.
Before she could crest into another orgasm, Ryan stopped. He pulled out entirely.
Zara let out a frustrated, agonizing whine, her hips jerking backward, searching for the heat.
Ryan walked around the couch and sat down heavily on the cushions. He spread his legs, planting his boots flat on the floor.
He was slick with her, his cock throbbing, heavy and aching in the chilled air.
"Get up," he ordered.
Zara pushed herself off the leather, her arms shaking. She looked at him through a tangled curtain of dark hair, her chest rising and falling violently.
"Come here. Ride," he said, tapping his thighs.
She crawled over the cushions, her movements clumsy, stripped of all her runway grace.
She straddled him, her knees sinking into the leather on either side of his hips. She reached down, her trembling fingers guiding the thick, slick head of his cock to her entrance, and slowly sank her weight down.
A long, shuddering groan ripped out of her as she took his full length. She threw her head back, the cords in her neck pulling tight, her eyes squeezing shut against the overwhelming fullness.
Ryan’s hands found her hips, anchoring her.
"Move," he instructed.
She posted up on her knees, pulling almost all the way off before sliding back down with a heavy, wet squelch.
She gasped, the friction tearing through her raw nerves. She did it again. Then again. Finding a clumsy, desperate rhythm.
Her hands planted flat on his chest, her nails biting into his skin. Sweat beaded on her collarbone, tracking down the swell of her breasts where the silk dress had slipped dangerously low.
Ryan watched her work. The pristine Zara Osei, grinding her hips in slow, sloppy circles, her face contorted in pure, agonizing pleasure. He let her set the pace for exactly sixty seconds, letting the burn build in her thighs, watching the muscles tremble as she fought to keep herself elevated.
Then he took over.
His hands slid from her hips to the back of her thighs, gripping the slick skin tight. He thrust upward from the hips, meeting her downward stroke with brutal, jarring force.
Zara’s breath hitched into a scream. She lost all control of her rhythm, reduced to a passenger as Ryan bucked beneath her, driving into her core with pile-driver intensity. Her breasts bounced violently with every impact, the silk straps of her dress finally giving way and sliding off her shoulders.
She was hyperventilating, her eyes rolling back, her nails carving red half-moons into his chest.
"Ryan—I’m—" she choked out, her walls spasming around him.
"Not yet," he snarled.
He gripped her by the waist, lifting her entirely off his lap, and stood up. Zara let out a startled shriek, wrapping her legs frantically around his torso to keep from falling.
He carried her across the room, his boots heavy on the carpet, until he reached the slanted, soundproof glass overlooking the stadium.
He slammed her back against the cold, thick pane.
The shock of the freezing glass against her heated, sweating skin made her gasp sharply. Down below, twenty thousand people were screaming, a sea of bright lights and motion on the hardwood court, completely oblivious to the depravity occurring thirty feet above their heads.
Ryan didn’t let her down. He pinned her to the glass, thrusting up into her with punishing, relentless force.
He freed one hand, reaching up to fist his fingers violently in her dark hair. He yanked her head back, forcing her to look down at the crowd.
He slammed into her, the glass vibrating faintly against her spine.
Zara’s eyes watered, staring blindly at the blazing lights of the arena floor, the tiny, moving figures of the players blurring into streaks of color.
Her hands flattened against the glass beside her head, leaving wide, sweaty prints on the pristine surface.
She was completely exposed. Elevated.
Displayed like a piece of art while he tore her apart from the inside. The sheer exhibitionism, the agonizingly deep thrusts, the freezing glass—it pushed her straight over the edge.
She screamed against the window, her body locking into a rigid, shuddering arch as a massive, violent climax ripped through her nervous system.