Lexi's POV
"You're..." I stopped, swallowed, tried again. "You're actually going to come over to my house?"
I heard him chuckle.
"Yeah. I'm coming over. And listen up, Lexi."
"I'm listening."
"The moment you hear me ring the doorbell or make a call, just know I'm at the door. You'll get up and unlock the door, then go back to exactly this position."
"Okay."
"Your legs must be open. Hands on your thighs. You will not move until I’m standing in front of you. Understand?”
My mind went blank for a second.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve been serious for eleven weeks, Lexi. Unlock the door in twelve minutes. If you disappoint me, I’ll simply leave and delete the chat. You’ll sit at your desk tomorrow knowing exactly what you refused. Your choice.”
The call ended.
I lay there breathing hard, staring at the dark screen, the taste of myself still on my tongue. Twelve minutes. He was already on his way. The man from two desks away was coming to my apartment because I had spent three months handing him every dark, dirty desire I owned.
I should have locked the phone, blocked the number, shoved a chair under the door handle.
Instead, I stood on shaky legs, walked to the front door, and unlocked it. Then I returned to the bed, lay against the headboard, spread my knees, and placed both hands flat on my bare thighs exactly as instructed.
Every sound in the hallway outside made my heart beat faster.
At the twelve-minute mark, my phone buzzed once.
Match_09: Now.
I stood up and walked over to the front door, and there he was. Filling the doorway, still in the same dark shirt he’d worn at the office, sleeves still rolled, expression unreadable.
He looked at me the way he had looked at his monitor all day — focused, assessing, already certain of the outcome.
I didn’t move.
He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and walked over to the bedroom like he already knew his way around the house.
I locked the door, rushed over to the bed, and got into the position he wanted.
He walked in fully and met me, simply taking in the picture I made: legs open, hands obediently on my thighs, cunt still glistening from how long I’d been wet for him.
“Good girl,” he said quietly.
Then he walked toward the bed.
He didn’t speak right away.
He stood at the foot of the bed and looked at me. The same man who sat two desks away every day, who answered emails in that calm, clipped voice, who never lingered at the coffee machine longer than necessary. Now he was in my bedroom with the door closed, staring at the exact place between my legs that had been wet for him since morning.
I kept my hands on my thighs like he ordered. My fingers dug into the skin hard enough to leave marks. The longer he stayed silent, the harder my pulse slammed in my throat and lower.
“You’ve been dripping for me all day,” he said finally. His voice was the same one from the call, low and even. “I watched you shift in your chair every time I sent a message. You crossed your legs like that would hide it. It didn’t.”
Heat flooded my face. I wanted to close my knees. Maybe I tried, but they ended up not closing.
He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. A few taps, then he turned the screen toward me. It was the photo I had sent to him the minute I got back home—black cotton underwear clearly soaked, the fabric darkened and clinging.
“You followed instructions,” he said. “That matters.”
He dropped the phone on my dresser without looking away from me. Then he started unbuttoning his shirt. Slow. Methodical. One button at a time until he shrugged it off and draped it over the chair in the corner. The undershirt came next. He was lean, solid, with the kind of quiet strength that never needed to advertise itself at the office. A dark line of hair ran down from his navel and disappeared into his trousers.
I ground my teeth hard. He noticed.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he said. “You’ve been imagining this for eleven weeks. Now you get to see it.”
He unbuckled his belt, pulled it free in one long slide, and set it on the bed beside my ankle. The sound of the zipper was loud in the quiet room. He pushed trousers and underwear down together and stepped out of them. His cock was already hard — thick, heavy, the head flushed and glistening at the tip. Bigger than I had pictured in the dark with only my own fingers for company.
I swallowed.
He wrapped one hand around himself and gave a single slow stroke, watching my face the entire time.
“This is what you’ve been begging a stranger for,” he said. “Your hands should remain where they are until I say otherwise.”
He lowered himself and put one knee on the bed, then the other, and moved up between my open legs. The first touch was his palm sliding from my knee up the inside of my thigh, stopping just short of where I needed it. My hips twitched. He pressed my thigh down harder against the bed.
“Do not move your body,” he murmured.
His other hand joined the first. Both thumbs brushed the soft skin crease, spreading me open without ever touching my cunt directly. I was so wet I could feel cool air against me. The scent of my own arousal was thick in the air.
He leaned down.
The first drag of his tongue was flat and deliberate, from entrance to clit in one long stroke. A moan left my lips before I could stop it. My hands clenched on my thighs. He did it again, slower, collecting the slickness that had gathered, spreading it higher.
He sealed his mouth over my clit and sucked in steady, rhythmic pulls that made my back arch off the headboard.
“Fuck—”
He pulled off just long enough to speak against me.
“Stay quiet unless I ask you a question. You’ve had three months of typing every filthy thought. Now you take what I give you.”
He returned back to work.
There was nothing hesitant about it. He licked and sucked like he had been planning the exact pressure and pace for weeks. Two fingers pushed into me without warning, curling hard against the front wall while his mouth stayed locked on my clit. My thighs started to shake. I could already feel the orgasm building too fast, the same sharp edge he had kept me on over text for so long.
He felt it.
His fingers slowed. The pressure of his mouth eased to light, almost cruel flicks of his tongue that kept me right there but refused to tip me over.
“Please,” I whispered.
He lifted his head. His mouth shone. “Please what?”
“Please let me come.”
“Not yet.”
He pulled his fingers out, wiped them once across my stomach, and moved up my body. The head of his cock dragged through my folds, deliberate, coating himself in my wetness. He didn’t push in. He just stayed there, rocking the head against my clit in small, maddening circles while he looked down at my face.
“You spent weeks telling a stranger you wanted to be used like you didn’t have a say over your body,” he said. “That you wanted it to hurt in the good way and the bad way. That you wanted to be left marked and sore. Look at me while I give it to you.”
I forced my eyes to stay locked on his.
He pushed in.
The stretch was immediate and intense. He didn’t stop halfway. He sank forward in one continuous thrust until his hips met mine and I felt completely filled. A sharp cry tore out of me. My hands flew up on instinct to push at his shoulders.
He caught both wrists and pinned them to the bed above my head in one easy motion.
“Don't take off your hands,” he said, voice still calm even as he started to move. “You asked for this. You typed every detail. Now you feel it.”
He fucked me in deep, measured strokes that dragged over every sensitive place inside me. The bed creaked under us. My wetness made every thrust audible. He kept my wrists pinned and his other hand braced beside my head so I had no choice but to take the full weight and length of him. Every time he bottomed out, I felt the sharp edge of too much, exactly the mix of good and bad I had confessed to wanting.
“Still so tight,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’ve been empty for me for months. That won't be happening anymore.”
He shifted the angle, hips rolling so that every stroke ground against my clit. The orgasm that had been hovering crashed over me. My back arched. I clenched around him in hard, rhythmic pulses, a broken moan ripping from my throat while he kept thrusting through it, never slowing.
He didn’t stop when the aftershocks faded.
He adjusted his grip on my wrists and continued, using the same steady, relentless pace while I twitched and tried to close my legs around him. The oversensitivity made every thrust sharper. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. He watched them form and didn’t slow down.
“You wanted to feel it the next day at work,” he said. “You’ll feel this. Every time you sit at your desk tomorrow, you’ll remember how you looked right now — spread open, wrists held down, coming on my cock because a man from two desks away told you to.”
I turned my face away. He released one wrist long enough to grip my jaw and turn it back.
“Keep your eyes on me.”
He fucked me through a second orgasm that left me sobbing and shaking.
He drove in deep one last time and came with a low, rough sound, flooding me in thick pulses I could feel. He stayed buried while he finished, forehead dropped against mine, breath harsh.
For several long seconds, the only sound in the room was the sound of our rough, uneven breaths.
When he finally pulled out, slow and deliberate, I felt the rush of his cum following. He looked down between my legs, watching it leak out of me on the sheets, then reached down and pushed two fingers back inside, pressing his release deeper.
“Keep your legs open,” he said quietly. “I’m not done looking at what I did to you.”