"Ahhh… oh my! Harder, faster, deeper! Stronger! Yes, baby! That's it!"
***
"You hit my deepest spot, oh my fucking God!"
I let him dominate me like the hungry lion he always was.
(Okay, hold on — did I just skip some crucial parts?)
Yeah… my bad. Let's rewind this mess properly.
[REWIND SOUND]
It actually started with me halfway through fixing my eyeliner, making sure I looked just unbothered enough to ruin his life.
Then the doorbell rang.
Ding-dong.
I smirked to myself.
It's a showtime, bitch.
I opened the door and shot him with my 'wow, I'm so shocked you still exist' glare.
"Unbelievable,"
I said, rolling my eyes so dramatically as if it was a full-body workout.
He grinned. That cocky, infuriating grin.
"Hey," he shot back, "weren't you the one who suggested this?"
"No," I snapped, deadpan. "I don't have time for clingy strangers."
I started to slam the door, but naturally, he wedged his foot in.
Classic Frank. Persistent idiot.
"Charlotte, hey… listen," he said, voice dropping that half-guilty, half-horny tone I loved to weaponize. "I'm sorry about what happened today."
Ah.
Bingo. The words I'd been waiting for.
I leaned against the doorframe, tilting my head just enough to make him sweat.
"Sorry for what?"
He hesitated.
That's a rookie mistake number one.
I stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper that could slice through steel.
"Come on, Frankie… you know what I wanna hear so badly tonight."
And like clockwork — because no matter how sharp his suits or how smug his smirk, Frank James Drake would do anything for me — he dropped to one knee.
Oh, that felt good.
I pressed a boot to his chest, grinning like a villainess in an BDSM fairy tale movie.
"Now beg."
He looked up, that flicker of pride dying slow in his eyes.
God, I loved that part. The fall. The surrender.
"Charlotte, please," he murmured.
I made a tsk sound.
"Louder."
He cleared his throat, that MI6 arrogance cracking like cheap glass.
"Charlotte.... I'm so sorry."
A shiver ran through me — not from the words, but from the way his ego tasted when he swallowed it.
"Good boy," I purred, letting my heel linger against his chest.
"Now, what exactly are you sorry for? Be specific, baby. I like details."
His jaw clenched. Oh, he hated this. Which only made me wetter.
"For underestimating you, almost ruining your reputation," he forced out.
I knelt down, fingers under his chin, making him look up at me like the pretty little traitor he was.
"And?"
"For thinking I could ever win."
A slow, satisfied sigh left my lips.
"There it is."
I kissed him then — not gentle, not tender.
Possessive.
Dangerous. The kind of kiss you gave a man before either ruining him or saving his life, depending on your mood when doing it.
Spoiler: Tonight, I was in a very bad mood.
Click.
I shut the door in front of his face.
And of course, he wouldn't leave.
"Charlotte, stop!"
His voice came through the door, sharp, frustrated.
"We need to talk. Who the hell are you, really?"
I leaned against the door, biting back a laugh.
"Come on," he continued. "The call from Berlin, the thing at the docks… none of this adds up. Who sent you? MI6? CIA? Or are you freelancing for someone worse?"
I said nothing.
Not because I didn't have an answer — but because it was way too fun watching him chase ghosts.
He kept going. "I swear to God, if you don't tell me—"
I rolled my eyes, crossing the room toward my mirror, fixing my lipstick like none of this even existed.
"Motherfucker," I muttered under my breath in Russian, lips curling into a smile.
Мудак.
Oh, Frankie boy.
If you only knew.
I could hear him pacing outside, that familiar mix of fury and frustration radiating through the door like heat.
I let it simmer for a few seconds. Because I'm generous like that.
Then, casually, I cracked the door open.
"It's not important," I said, voice low, lazy. "You're overthinking again, Frankie."
His eyes burned. "Like hell it's not. Charlotte, I'm done playing games. Who are you?"
I gave him a little scoff, the one kind that said something like 'God, you're adorable when you think you have leverage.'
"Does it really matter? What matters is…"
I stepped closer, grabbing his tie and yanking him inside.
Click.
Door locked.
"…that you get in tune, baby."
His back hit the wall. I pressed against him, lips grazing his ear.
"You want answers? Earn them."
And just like that, the air snapped back to exactly where I wanted it — thick, hot, dangerous.
He swallowed hard, the interrogation already dead, replaced by something messier, something primal.
I smirked, dragging him by the tie toward the couch like a lioness toying with a wounded deer.
(Now, where were we?)
"Ahhh… oh my! Harder, faster, deeper! Stronger! Yes, baby! That's it!"
And this time, I was the one in control.
Like I always had been.
"Deeper, you pathetic fuck—give it to me!"
My nails raked down his chest, leaving angry red welts that beaded with blood, my fingers curling like claws as I claimed every inch of him. My pussy clenched around his cock, tight and hot, the slick walls gripping him so fiercely it was a miracle he hadn't broken yet. Each thrust drove him against her cervix, a sharp jolt that made me gasp, my head tipping back as a wicked grin split my face.
"You hit my deepest spot, oh my fucking God!"
Except — let's be clear — he wasn't the one calling the shots.
I rode him like a woman possessed. No, scratch that — like a woman who had always known she was the possession. The one who owned the room, the night, and the man gasping beneath her like a sinner begging for salvation he didn't deserve.
His cock, thick and throbbing, was buried to the hilt, glistening with juices every time I lifted just enough to tease him before slamming back down. His face was a mess of desperation—eyes glassy, lips parted, a low, broken moan spilling out as I rode him like he was nothing but a tool for my pleasure.
His hands gripped my hips, but that was charity. I let him think he had permission.
"That's it," I purred, grinding down until his breath hitched. "Say it."
His jaw clenched. He was trying to hold on to that last pathetic scrap of dignity.
My breasts brushing his chest, the lace of my bra scraping his skin. My lips hovered over his, close enough to taste his ragged breaths
I slammed my hips down, slow and deep, watching his head tip back.
"Fucking say it, Frankie."
"You—"
He gasped, voice cracking.
I smirked, slamming down hard, my ass slapping against his thighs, the impact sending a spray of juices across his skin.
"You win." he choked out, head falling back against the concrete, his pride shattered.
I leaned down, lips brushing his, savoring his broken pride.
"Good boy."
I kissed him hard — the kind of kiss that left bruises, the kind that rewrote the history of his mouth so every other woman would taste like a footnote.
My pussy was a mess of slick heat, juices thick and creamy, dripping down his cock and pooling on the floor beneath them, a lewd testament to my control.
Our sweat-slicked bodies moved like something feral, something too raw for words. Every snap of my hips was a statement, every sharp scratch of my nails down his chest a signature.
"You think you know me?" I hissed in his ear, sinking my teeth into his neck hard enough to leave a mark.
He moaned — actual, honest-to-God moaned.
"You don't know shit."
He didn't answer, too far gone. Beautiful.
I straightened, hair clinging to my back, thighs aching in the best way.
One final, punishing roll of my hips and Frankie came undone, his release hot and thick, spilling deep inside me. I didn't relent, coaxing every last drop from him, my body tightening around him with merciless intent.
His trembling gave him away, his face twisted in that beautiful blur of pleasure and torment. Only when I was certain he was spent did I ease my pace, leaning back with a breathless, satisfied grin, my hands steady on his thighs.
I could still feel myself fluttering around him, slick warmth trailing down my inner thigh, staining the fabric below. I didn't stop until I'd wrung every last drop out of him.
Only then did I lean back, smug as a cat in cream.
I slid off, grabbed his tie, and used it to drag him up by the collar.
"Hope you've got more in you, lover boy mate,"
I smirked, nailing that British accent perfectly.
"We're not done 'til I say we're done." I slid off him, my movements slow and deliberate, like a predator sated but still hungry. I grabbed his burgundy tie, yanking him up until his face was inches from hers, his breath ragged, his eyes glassy.
I grabbed a bottle of water, downing it in one long gulp, the liquid spilling over my chin, tracing a path between my breasts, dripping onto my lace bra.
His breath came ragged, pupils blown wide.
"You're insane."
I grinned.
"That's what makes it good."
In the mirror, I caught my own reflection — hair wild, lips swollen, skin flushed.
A goddamn masterpiece.
I turned to Frank, sprawled and ruined on the couch.
"Now get dressed," I said sweetly, tossing his pants at him.
"We've got a briefing at midnight."
His face twisted. "Wait — you knew about the operation?"
I winked.
"Told you it wasn't important."
And under my breath, in perfect, smug Russian:
"Мудак."
Motherfucker.