Minato's hands clamped onto Mikasa's hips, fingers sinking into soft flesh hard enough to bruise. One brutal thrust buried him to the root inside her, and the sound she made (half sob, half moan) was the most beautiful thing he'd heard all week.
"Fuck," she gasped, forehead dropping to the cool mahogany desk, papers crinkling beneath her. "You're so deep."
He pulled back slowly, deliberately, letting her feel every thick inch dragging along her walls, then slammed back in. The desk lurched forward an inch; a stack of contracts slid to the floor with a soft thud.
"That's for every minute I was late," he growled against her ear, bending over her, chest to her back. His tie brushed the sweat-damp skin between her shoulder blades.
Mikasa laughed breathlessly, pushing back to meet his next thrust. "Then you owe me thirty-nine more, sir."
He gave them to her. Hard, punishing strokes that rocked her body forward, tits spilling completely free from the ruined bra now, nipples scraping against scattered reports. Each slap of skin on skin echoed in the quiet office, wet and obscene.
Her pussy fluttered around him, impossibly hot, impossibly tight, clenching every time he bottomed out.
"Touch yourself," he ordered, voice rough. "I want to feel you come around my cock while you're still wearing that wedding ring."
Mikasa's hand flew between her thighs, fingers circling her swollen clit in frantic little motions.
The diamond on her left hand glinted under the desk lamp, obscene and perfect. She moaned his name like a prayer, hips rolling back to take him deeper.
Minato straightened, gripping the base of her neck and pressing her cheek to the desk, holding her pinned. The new angle let him hit that spot inside her that made her see stars. Her breath hitched, thighs trembling.
"Right there—don't stop—fuck, Minato—"
He didn't. He fucked her like he hated her and worshipped her in the same breath, relentless, hips snapping, balls slapping against her clit with every thrust. The scent of sex filled the room: her arousal, his sweat, the faint jasmine of her perfume.
"Look at you," he rasped, watching himself disappear into her over and over, her lips gripping him greedily. "Taking your husband's best friend raw on his own desk. You're dripping down my balls, Mikasa."
She whimpered, fingers moving faster. "I can't— I'm gonna—"
"Come," he snarled, reaching around to shove her hand aside and take over, two rough fingers grinding against her clit. "Come on my cock like the filthy married slut you are."
The words snapped something inside her. Mikasa's entire body seized, back arching off the desk as her orgasm crashed through her. She came with a broken cry, pussy spasming so hard around him it almost hurt, gushing slick heat that soaked his shaft and dripped onto the carpet.
Minato groaned at the feel of it, hips stuttering. He fucked her through it, drawing it out until she was shaking, oversensitive, pushing back weakly with little sobs of too much.
Only then did he let himself go.
He pulled out at the last second, fisting his cock, slick with her juices. Thick ropes of cum painted her ass and lower back, marking her in hot, obscene streaks. One spurt landed high enough to hit the clasp of her bra; another dripped slowly down the cleft of her ass.
Mikasa stayed bent over the desk, panting, thighs trembling. She turned her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder, lips swollen, mascara smudged, utterly wrecked.
"You ruined my skirt," she said, voice hoarse but amused.
Minato tucked himself away, still half-hard, and leaned down to press a surprisingly gentle kiss between her shoulder blades, tasting salt and sex. "Send me the dry-cleaning bill."
She laughed softly, pushing up on shaky arms. Cum slid down her skin as she straightened, leaving glistening trails. Without breaking eye contact, she reached back, swiped two fingers through the mess on her ass, and brought them to her mouth. She licked them clean, slow and deliberate, humming at the taste.
Minato's cock twitched again, already threatening to rally.
Mikasa noticed. Of course she did.
"Round two in the conference room?" she asked, arching a brow. "I still have forty minutes before I'm supposed to be home cooking Eren dinner."
Minato grinned, dark and feral, and grabbed her wrist to pull her toward the door.
"Leave the skirt on," he said. "I'm not done destroying it yet."
The conference room was dark except for the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Minato didn't bother with the switch. He wanted her silhouetted against the skyline when he took her again.
Mikasa stepped inside first, heels clicking across the polished walnut table that could seat twenty executives. She stopped in the middle, turned, and leaned back against the edge, palms braced on cool wood.
Her skirt was still bunched around her waist, bra hanging uselessly from one shoulder, cum drying in slow rivulets down the backs of her thighs. She looked like a fever dream.
Minato shut the door. The lock clicked like a starting gun.
"Take the jacket off," she said softly. "Slowly. I want to watch."
He obeyed, shrugging out of the charcoal suit jacket, letting it fall. The tie came next, silk whispering as he pulled it free and looped it once around his fist.
Mikasa's tongue touched her lower lip. "You going to tie me up with that, boss?"
"Thinking about it." He stalked toward her, rolling his sleeves to the elbow, revealing strong forearms. "Hands behind your back."
She arched a brow but complied, crossing her wrists at the small of her back. The position thrust her breasts forward, nipples tight and dark in the low light.
Minato stepped in close, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him. He dragged the tie across her skin (first over one nipple, then the other) until she shivered.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I'm cold," she lied.
He smiled against her throat. "Liar."
The tie looped around her wrists, snug but not cruel, knot tight enough that she couldn't wriggle free. Then he spun her, bent her forward over the table. Her cheek met the glossy surface; her bound hands forced her back into a perfect arch.
Minato stood behind her and simply looked for a long moment. City lights painted stripes of gold and violet across her skin. Her skirt was ruined, stockings torn at one thigh, pussy still flushed and glistening from round one. His cum had dried in delicate streaks down her legs like obscene jewelry.
"Spread," he said.
Mikasa widened her stance without hesitation, heels scraping the wood. The movement made the remnants of his release crack and flake from her skin.
Minato dropped to his knees behind her.
The first touch of his tongue was feather-light, tracing the path his cum had taken from the curve of her ass down to where her thighs trembled. She jolted, a sharp inhale echoing in the empty room.
"Minato—"
He didn't answer with words. He licked into her, slow and filthy, tasting both of them together. His tongue delved inside her, curling, fucking her with it until her thighs shook harder and her bound hands scrabbled uselessly against her own back.
When he pulled away, she whimpered at the loss.
Then two fingers replaced his tongue, sliding in easily, scissoring, stretching her open again. He added a third, curling them just right.
"Look out the window," he commanded, voice low. "Anyone with binoculars in the building across the street could see you right now. Tied up. Dripping. Begging for it."
Mikasa's breath fogged the polished wood. "Let them watch," she gasped. "Let them see what you do to me."
He stood, fingers still buried inside her, and used his free hand to free himself again. His cock was already rock-hard, flushed dark, slick with pre-cum. He dragged the head through her folds, teasing, coating himself in her.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
She pushed back desperately. "Fuck me. Hard. Like you own me."
Minato slammed home in one thrust.
The table rocked beneath them, a low groan of expensive wood. Mikasa cried out, the sound raw and gorgeous. He set a brutal pace immediately, no warm-up, no mercy, hips snapping, balls slapping against her clit with every stroke.
Her bound wrists kept her from bracing properly; every thrust shoved her forward, tits sliding across the table, nipples catching on the ridges of inlaid walnut. The friction made her sob with pleasure.
Minato leaned over her, one hand fisting her hair, pulling her head back until her throat was exposed.
"Say it," he growled against her ear.
"I'm yours," she chanted, voice breaking. "Fuck, Minato, I'm yours, I'm yours—"
He reached beneath her, found her clit with ruthless fingers, and rubbed tight, fast circles. Her second orgasm hit like a freight train, sudden and violent. She clenched around him so hard his vision whited out for a second, a broken scream tearing from her throat.
He didn't stop. Couldn't. He fucked her through it, past it, until she was babbling nonsense and tears streaked the table beneath her cheek.
Only when she went limp, held up only by his grip and the tie around her wrists, did he let himself follow.
He pulled out at the last second again, painting her back this time, thick pulses that striped from her shoulder blades to the dimples above her ass. The sight of her bound, marked, utterly wrecked, dragged a guttural groan from his chest.
Silence fell, broken only by their harsh breathing and the distant hum of the city thirty floors below.
Eventually, Minato untied her wrists, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs. Mikasa turned in his arms, legs unsteady, and kissed him, slow and deep, tasting herself and him and everything filthy they'd done.
She pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, "I really do have to be home by eight."
Minato glanced at the clock on the wall. 7:23.
He smiled, dark and sated. "Then we'd better hurry."
Mikasa laughed softly, the sound husky and ruined. "Shower in your private bathroom?"
"Already running," he said, and scooped her up, cum still dripping down her thighs, carrying her toward the door at the back of the conference room.
Behind them, the long walnut table gleamed under the city lights, scattered with fingerprints, streaks of sweat, and the unmistakable evidence of round two.
They never did finish the paperwork.
The private bathroom was all dark marble and brushed steel, the rain shower already steaming when Minato carried her inside. He set Mikasa on her feet, steadying her when her knees buckled. The ruined skirt finally slid down her legs and pooled on the floor like a surrender flag.
Hot water cascaded over them the second he pulled her under the spray. Mikasa sighed, tilting her face up, letting it sluice through her hair, washing away mascara and sweat and the last traces of the day. Minato watched, transfixed, as rivulets ran down her body: over the curve of her breasts, tracing the lines of his fingerprints on her hips, slipping between her thighs where she was still swollen and sensitive.
She opened her eyes and caught him staring.
"Like what you see?" she murmured, voice soft under the roar of water.
He didn't answer with words. He crowded her back against the cool tile, hands sliding up to cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they stiffened again. She was tender, oversensitive, but she arched into him anyway.
Minato dropped to his knees on the wet marble, water pounding his shoulders. He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her completely. The sight of her—flushed, glistening, his cum still faintly visible inside her—made his spent cock twitch against his thigh.
"Minato," she warned, fingers threading through his wet hair, "I'm sore."
"I know," he said, voice rough. "I just want to taste how thoroughly I wrecked you."
His tongue traced her gently at first, soft kitten licks over her clit, cleaning her with slow reverence. Mikasa's head fell back against the tile with a soft thud, a broken moan echoing off the walls. He kept it tender—lapping at her folds, sucking lightly, sliding two fingers inside just to feel the way she fluttered around them, still pulsing from earlier orgasms.
She came again like that—quietly this time, almost sweetly—hips rolling against his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair as she shuddered through it. He didn't stop until she tugged him up by the shoulders, pulling him into a slow, deep kiss so she could taste herself on his tongue.
When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his.
"You're going to kill me one day,"
she whispered.
"Worth it," he answered.
Mikasa laughed, the sound husky and fond. She reached for the body wash, pouring a generous amount into her palm. Her hands—those elegant, deadly hands—slid over his chest, down his abs, wrapping around his cock with a possessive stroke that made him hiss.
He was half-hard again, impossibly, and she worked him slowly, teasingly, until he was fully erect and throbbing in her grip.
"Turn around," she said.
He did.
Mikasa pressed against his back, breasts soft against his shoulder blades, one hand still stroking him lazily while the other reached lower, cupping his balls, rolling them gently. Her lips brushed the nape of his neck.
"You made me come three times," she murmured against his skin. "My turn."
She sank to her knees behind him, water streaming down his back and over her face. One hand braced on his thigh, the other guiding his cock as she took him into her mouth from behind—an angle neither of them had ever tried before. The heat, the water, the sheer filth of it made his knees nearly buckle.
Minato groaned, bracing both palms against the tile, head hanging as she sucked him slow and deep, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing.
She took her time—worshipping him the way he'd just worshipped her—until his hips were rocking helplessly and his breath came in ragged bursts.
When he came, it was with her name on his lips, spilling down her throat in long, pulsing waves. She swallowed every drop, then pressed soft kisses to his thigh, his hip, the base of his spine.
They stayed like that for a long moment—water pouring over them, washing everything clean—until Mikasa finally stood and turned him to face her.
She looked wrecked and radiant, lips swollen, eyes soft.
"7:49," she said, glancing at the fog-proof clock on the wall.
Minato exhaled a laugh and reached for the shampoo. "Then let's get you home to your husband."
He washed her hair with careful fingers, massaging her scalp until she practically purred. She returned the favor, nails scraping lightly over his skin, leaving faint pink trails that disappeared under the water.
When they finally stepped out, he wrapped her in one of his oversized towels, drying her slowly—kneeling to towel her legs, pressing kisses to the bruises blooming on her hips, the faint red marks from the tie.
Mikasa watched him with an expression he couldn't quite name.
"What?" he asked.
She touched his cheek. "Nothing. Just… remembering why I keep coming back."
He caught her wrist, kissed the inside of it—right over the faint tan line where her wedding ring had been all day.Minato's hands clamped onto Mikasa's hips, fingers sinking into soft flesh hard enough to bruise.
One brutal thrust buried him to the root inside her, and the sound she made (half sob, half moan) was the most beautiful thing he'd heard all week.
"Fuck," she gasped, forehead dropping to the cool mahogany desk, papers crinkling beneath her.
"You're so deep."
He pulled back slowly, deliberately, letting her feel every thick inch dragging along her walls, then slammed back in. The desk lurched forward an inch; a stack of contracts slid to the floor with a soft thud.
"That's for every minute I was late," he growled against her ear, bending over her, chest to her back. His tie brushed the sweat-damp skin between her shoulder blades.
Mikasa laughed breathlessly, pushing back to meet his next thrust. "Then you owe me thirty-nine more, sir."
He gave them to her. Hard, punishing strokes that rocked her body forward, tits spilling completely free from the ruined bra now, nipples scraping against scattered reports. Each slap of skin on skin echoed in the quiet office, wet and obscene.
Her pussy fluttered around him, impossibly hot, impossibly tight, clenching every time he bottomed out.
"Touch yourself," he ordered, voice rough. "I want to feel you come around my cock while you're still wearing that wedding ring."
Mikasa's hand flew between her thighs, fingers circling her swollen clit in frantic little motions.
The diamond on her left hand glinted under the desk lamp, obscene and perfect. She moaned his name like a prayer, hips rolling back to take him deeper.
Minato straightened, gripping the base of her neck and pressing her cheek to the desk, holding her pinned. The new angle let him hit that spot inside her that made her see stars. Her breath hitched, thighs trembling.
"Right there—don't stop—fuck, Minato—"
He didn't. He fucked her like he hated her and worshipped her in the same breath, relentless, hips snapping, balls slapping against her clit with every thrust. The scent of sex filled the room: her arousal, his sweat, the faint jasmine of her perfume.
"Look at you," he rasped, watching himself disappear into her over and over, her lips gripping him greedily. "Taking your husband's best friend raw on his own desk. You're dripping down my balls, Mikasa."
She whimpered, fingers moving faster. "I can't— I'm gonna—"
"Come," he snarled, reaching around to shove her hand aside and take over, two rough fingers grinding against her clit. "Come on my cock like the filthy married slut you are."
The words snapped something inside her. Mikasa's entire body seized, back arching off the desk as her orgasm crashed through her. She came with a broken cry, pussy spasming so hard around him it almost hurt, gushing slick heat that soaked his shaft and dripped onto the carpet.
Minato groaned at the feel of it, hips stuttering. He fucked her through it, drawing it out until she was shaking, oversensitive, pushing back weakly with little sobs of too much.
Only then did he let himself go.
He pulled out at the last second, fisting his cock, slick with her juices. Thick ropes of cum painted her ass and lower back, marking her in hot, obscene streaks. One spurt landed high enough to hit the clasp of her bra; another dripped slowly down the cleft of her ass.
Mikasa stayed bent over the desk, panting, thighs trembling.
She turned her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder, lips swollen, mascara smudged, utterly wrecked.
"You ruined my skirt," she said, voice hoarse but amused.
Minato tucked himself away, still half-hard, and leaned down to press a surprisingly gentle kiss between her shoulder blades, tasting salt and sex. "Send me the dry-cleaning bill."
She laughed softly, pushing up on shaky arms. Cum slid down her skin as she straightened, leaving glistening trails. Without breaking eye contact, she reached back, swiped two fingers through the mess on her ass, and brought them to her mouth. She licked them clean, slow and deliberate, humming at the taste.
Minato's cock twitched again, already threatening to rally.
Mikasa noticed. Of course she did.
"Round two in the conference room?" she asked, arching a brow. "I still have forty minutes before I'm supposed to be home cooking Eren dinner."
Minato grinned, dark and feral, and grabbed her wrist to pull her toward the door.
"Leave the skirt on," he said. "I'm not done destroying it yet."
The conference room was dark except for the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Minato didn't bother with the switch. He wanted her silhouetted against the skyline when he took her again.
Mikasa stepped inside first, heels clicking across the polished walnut table that could seat twenty executives. She stopped in the middle, turned, and leaned back against the edge, palms braced on cool wood.
Her skirt was still bunched around her waist, bra hanging uselessly from one shoulder, cum drying in slow rivulets down the backs of her thighs. She looked like a fever dream.
Minato shut the door. The lock clicked like a starting gun.
"Take the jacket off," she said softly.
"Slowly. I want to watch."
He obeyed, shrugging out of the charcoal suit jacket, letting it fall. The tie came next, silk whispering as he pulled it free and looped it once around his fist.
Mikasa's tongue touched her lower lip. "You going to tie me up with that, boss?"
"Thinking about it." He stalked toward her, rolling his sleeves to the elbow, revealing strong forearms. "Hands behind your back."
She arched a brow but complied, crossing her wrists at the small of her back. The position thrust her breasts forward, nipples tight and dark in the low light.
Minato stepped in close, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him. He dragged the tie across her skin (first over one nipple, then the other) until she shivered.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I'm cold," she lied.
He smiled against her throat. "Liar."
The tie looped around her wrists, snug but not cruel, knot tight enough that she couldn't wriggle free. Then he spun her, bent her forward over the table. Her cheek met the glossy surface; her bound hands forced her back into a perfect arch.
Minato stood behind her and simply looked for a long moment. City lights painted stripes of gold and violet across her skin. Her skirt was ruined, stockings torn at one thigh, pussy still flushed and glistening from round one. His cum had dried in delicate streaks down her legs like obscene jewelry.
"Spread," he said.
Mikasa widened her stance without hesitation, heels scraping the wood. The movement made the remnants of his release crack and flake from her skin.
Minato dropped to his knees behind her.
The first touch of his tongue was feather-light, tracing the path his cum had taken from the curve of her ass down to where her thighs trembled. She jolted, a sharp inhale echoing in the empty room.
"Minato—"
He didn't answer with words. He licked into her, slow and filthy, tasting both of them together. His tongue delved inside her, curling, fucking her with it until her thighs shook harder and her bound hands scrabbled uselessly against her own back.
When he pulled away, she whimpered at the loss.
Then two fingers replaced his tongue, sliding in easily, scissoring, stretching her open again. He added a third, curling them just right.
"Look out the window," he commanded, voice low. "Anyone with binoculars in the building across the street could see you right now. Tied up. Dripping. Begging for it."
Mikasa's breath fogged the polished wood. "Let them watch," she gasped. "Let them see what you do to me."
He stood, fingers still buried inside her, and used his free hand to free himself again. His cock was already rock-hard, flushed dark, slick with pre-cum. He dragged the head through her folds, teasing, coating himself in her.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
She pushed back desperately. "Fuck me. Hard. Like you own me."
Minato slammed home in one thrust.
The table rocked beneath them, a low groan of expensive wood. Mikasa cried out, the sound raw and gorgeous. He set a brutal pace immediately, no warm-up, no mercy, hips snapping, balls slapping against her clit with every stroke.
Her bound wrists kept her from bracing properly; every thrust shoved her forward, tits sliding across the table, nipples catching on the ridges of inlaid walnut. The friction made her sob with pleasure.
Minato leaned over her, one hand fisting her hair, pulling her head back until her throat was exposed.
"Say it," he growled against her ear.
"I'm yours," she chanted, voice breaking. "Fuck, Minato, I'm yours, I'm yours—"
He reached beneath her, found her clit with ruthless fingers, and rubbed tight, fast circles. Her second orgasm hit like a freight train, sudden and violent. She clenched around him so hard his vision whited out for a second, a broken scream tearing from her throat.
He didn't stop. Couldn't. He fucked her through it, past it, until she was babbling nonsense and tears streaked the table beneath her cheek.
Only when she went limp, held up only by his grip and the tie around her wrists, did he let himself follow.
He pulled out at the last second again, painting her back this time, thick pulses that striped from her shoulder blades to the dimples above her ass. The sight of her bound, marked, utterly wrecked, dragged a guttural groan from his chest.
Silence fell, broken only by their harsh breathing and the distant hum of the city thirty floors below.
Eventually, Minato untied her wrists, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs.
—————
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