Merol reached down, his fingers brushing against the sticky mess on my belly. He smeared my own cum across my skin, his touch possessive, as if he were marking me with my own release.
"You're a mess," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
I let out a shaky breath, my body still humming from the intensity. The vulnerability of the moment was suffocating.
"So, what?" I asked.
"Tch, you really are a messy slut."
I looked up at him, seeing the conflict in his expression—the secretary who served me, the man who wanted to break me, and the man who couldn't stand to see me belong to anyone else.
"I'm your mess," I whimpered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
The admission seemed to snap something inside him. He didn't respond with words. Instead, he grabbed my ankles and yanked me toward the edge of the seat, flipping me over so I was on all fours, my ass thrust high in the air.
