The first time Paco really looked at me, I was filing papers in the break room, my pencil skirt riding up just enough to tease him. He stood in the doorway like some kind of predatory lion, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the fluorescent light. His eyes dragged down my body—lingering on my tits, my waist, the way my ass filled out that tight skirt. I didn’t notice at first. I was too busy thinking about my student loans and whether my iced coffee was cold enough.
Then came the rain.
It was pouring that evening when he offered me a ride home. I hesitated—I barely knew the man—but the bus was already packed, and my shoes were cheap leather that would be ruined in the downpour. Plus, he smelled like expensive cologne and something darker, something that made my stomach flutter when he leaned in to open the car door for me.
The seats were warm, the engine purring like a satisfied cat. His hand brushed my knee when he shifted gears, and I shivered. Not from the cold.
“You’re freezing,” he murmured, reaching into the backseat for a blanket. His fingers grazed my thigh as he draped it over me, and I swear to god, my panties were damp before he even pulled out of the parking lot.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to sound professional, but my voice came out breathy.
He smirked. “Don’t mention it.”
The rain drummed against the windshield, the wipers a steady rhythm as he drove. I should’ve been nervous. He was married. He was my boss. He was old enough to be my father. But the way his thumb tapped against the steering wheel, the way his eyes kept flicking to my legs—I was already wet, already imagining his hands replacing mine on the wheel, his mouth replacing the taste of my vanilla latte.
Then his hand was on my thigh again, higher this time. My breath hitched.
“Isis,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue like a sin. “You’re trembling.”
I was. But not from the cold.
His fingers traced the seam of my panties, teasing me through the damp fabric. “You’ve been thinking about this too, haven’t you?”
I should’ve pushed his hand away. Should’ve slapped him. Should’ve done anything but grip the edge of the seat and spread my legs wider.
“Fuck,” I gasped as his fingers slipped beneath the lace, finding me slick and needy.
“That’s right, baby,” he growled. “Let me hear you say it.”
His thumb circled my clit while two fingers slid inside me, stretching me just enough to make my hips jerk off the seat. The car swerved slightly, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch. Just curled his fingers inside me, hitting that perfect spot that made my vision blur.
“Oh god,” I moaned, my head falling back against the headrest.
“Not god,” he corrected, his voice rough. “Paco.”
I came with his name on my lips, my pussy clenching around his fingers as he pumped them in and out, drawing out every last shuddering breath. When I finally blinked my eyes open, he was staring at me with dark, hungry eyes.
“Good girl,” he murmured, bringing his fingers to his lips and sucking them clean.
I should’ve been ashamed. Should’ve kicked him out of my life right then and there. But all I could think about was how much I wanted to taste myself on his tongue.
We ended up at his place—some sleek, modern penthouse downtown that smelled like leather and expensive whiskey. He didn’t even give me time to admire the view before he had me pinned against the floor-to-ceiling windows, my skirt hiked up around my waist, my blouse torn open, buttons scattering like hail.
His mouth crashed onto mine, tasting like sin and bad decisions. I moaned into the kiss, my hands fisting in his hair as he ground his hard cock against my thigh.
“You’re mine now,” he growled against my lips. “Mine to fuck whenever I want.”
I believed him.
The next few weeks were a blur of stolen touches, whispered promises, and motel rooms with sticky floors and threadbare sheets. He’d bend me over the desk in his office when the building was empty, his belt cracking against my ass as he fucked me from behind. He’d take me to dinner at places where the waiters knew his name, then drag me into the parking lot to kiss me until I was dizzy, his hands cupping my tits through my blouse, pinching my nipples until I whimpered.
And then there were the motels.
Cheap places with flickering neon signs and beds that smelled like bleach and regret. But none of that mattered when he pushed me onto the mattress, his hands rough as he stripped me bare. I’d wrap my lips around his cock, hollowing my cheeks as I sucked him deep, his salty taste bursting on my tongue. He’d groan, his fingers tangling in my hair as I took him to the back of my throat, gagging but not stopping.
One night, after he’d fucked me into the mattress until I couldn’t walk straight, he pulled out and came all over my tits, painting me white as I lay there, panting, my mouth still open from the effort of taking him so deep.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his thumb dragging through the mess on my chest. “So fucking perfect.”
I should’ve hated myself. Should’ve run as far and fast as I could.
But then he kissed me again, his tongue sliding into my mouth, and I knew—I was ruined. Addicted. His.
The last time I saw him was in the parking garage after work. He had me pressed against the cold concrete wall, his hands gripping my ass as he fucked me hard and fast, my skirt bunched up around my waist, my blouse unbuttoned enough to let the cool air tease my nipples.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he grunted, his cock pounding into me so deep I could feel him