I reach out and grasp her arm, pulling her back. My fingers flex against her skin, wanting to hold tighter but carefully controlling the pressure. “That has nothing to do with being—” I stop, swallowing the hurt rising in my throat. The words I want to say—that her accusation cuts deeper than she knows, that I’ve always feared I’m not enough for her—remain locked behind my ribs. Instead, I take a deep breath. “That’s about being professional.”
“Professional. Responsible. Practical.” She ticks off the words on her fingers. “That’s all you ever are.”
Something in her eyes makes me pause. This isn’t really about me; there’s something else going on here. But her accusation stings, feeding into my deepest insecurities.
I’ve always worried I wasn’t exciting enough for her, that someday she’d realize she wanted more than what I could offer.
“You think I don’t have passion?” I growl, backing her against the wall. “You think I’m boring?”
Her breath catches, eyes widening. “I—”
“Tu penses que je suis plate? Let me show you boring.” I reach down and begin unbuckling my belt, maintaining eye contact as I do.
I know this is playing right into whatever game she’s running, but I can’t help myself. The idea that she finds me predictable ignites something untamed within me.
Grabbing her shoulder, I firmly push her down until she’s kneeling before me. Her eyes become round, but she doesn’t resist.
I shove my pants and boxers down just enough to free my cock. I grip her hair with one hand and guide my dick to her mouth with the other. She opens for me as I push inside.
I hit the back of her throat, and she gags, but I don’t let up. The sound shoots straight through me, tightening every muscle. I hold her head still and fuck her mouth.
She relaxes, taking me in, her hands coming up to grip my thighs. Tension builds at the base of my spine as my orgasm approaching fast. Her mouth feels incredible, but I’m too worked up to enjoy it for long.
I come with a groan, holding her head still as I spill down her throat. She swallows every drop even as her eyes water. I pull out of her mouth, my cock still semi-hard.
Reaching down and hauling her to her feet, I spin her around so she’s facing the wall. I press her against it, my body flush with hers. I grab the waistband of her leggings and yank them down to her knees, exposing her bare ass to me.
I run my hand over her smooth skin, then slip it between her legs. She’s wet, her pussy slick and ready. I don’t waste time on foreplay. I guide my cock to her entrance and push inside, filling her with a deep thrust.
She pants, her hands pressing against the wall. I don’t give her time to adjust. I begin to fuck her hard, my hips slapping against her ass.
The sound of our skin meeting fills the room, mixing with our harsh breaths. I grip her hips, my fingers digging into her soft flesh as I pound into her.
“Câlisse, tu me rends fou. Damn, you drive me crazy.”
She pushes back against me, meeting each thrust. I can feel her tightening around me, her body coiling. I lean forward until my mouth finds her ear.
« C’était ça que tu voulais, ma belle?” I growl. “You wanted spontaneous? You wanted exciting?”
She moans as I bite down on her earlobe, my strokes becoming more desperate as my own orgasm builds.
Suddenly, her cry of release fills the room. I follow her over the edge, coming inside her.
I pull out of her, helping her to stand. She turns to face me, her leggings still around her knees, her face flushed. I can see the mix of emotions in her eyes.
I tuck myself back into my pants, doing up my belt as I watch her. She pulls up her leggings, and I reach out, cupping her face.
“Was that what you needed, ma belle?” I ask softly, searching her eyes for answers.
Her face crumples suddenly, tears spilling down her cheeks as she throws her arms around me. Her body shakes with silent sobs against my chest.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, Connor.”
I hold her, bewildered by this emotional whiplash. Just moments ago, she was challenging me, provoking me, and now she’s falling apart in my arms.
In the ten years I’ve known Meesha, she’s always been consistently sunny and warm, with occasional flashes of temper burning hot and fast before dissolving into laughter. This rapid cycling between aggression and despair feels like trying to navigate a hockey game where someone keeps changing the rules without telling me.
“Meesha, talk to me.” I stroked her back. “What’s really going on?”
