50 Shades of Drake 1 and 2

50SOD II: Chapter Forty-Eight

    "This looks...amazing," Aubrey commented, inspecting the food on his plate.

    Destiny laughed. "Thanks for sounding surprised," she said sarcastically, sitting in the chair at his right.

    He smiled at her. "Sorry." It was moments like those that she found him completely and utterly adorable. Being Canadian, he pronounced certain words differently than Americans, and the word "sorry" was one of them. He tended to make the "o" in "sorry" a bit stronger than the typical American.

    Unable to maintain eye contact when she found him that adorable, she tried focusing on her own plate.

    After taking his first bite a fried plantain, he moaned. "This is so fucking good. You made this?"

    "Yes, I did," she said, laughing.

    "Are you sure? You didn't have it catered in when I wasn't looking?" He took another bite. "This is amazing. I'm going to need you to make this for me again."

    She grinned proudly. "I'm glad you like it, Sir."

    "I would kiss you if my mouth wasn't full right now," he told her, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I shouldn't even be talking right now. But...fuck, it's good. I was curious about what you were going to make, since nothing was prepped beforehand. You did that, baby girl. Thank you."

    "You're welcome, Sir," she said quietly, feeling like her heart was going to burst.

    "After we are finished here, there is something I want to try with you."

    Her hand tensed around the handle of her fork. "Oh?" His words instilled a sense of fear in her, since his past experiments had been quite intense.

    "Nothing major," he said after chewing a bit of chicken. "That look of fear in your eyes is unnecessary."

    She lowered her eyes. Why does he always have to be so damned mysterious about everything? This would go a lot easier if he said, "Hey, here's what we are going to do when lunch is finished." She didn't know if giving critique would result in her being bended over his knee or not, so she pursed her lips shut.

    After that vague statement, however, conversation flowed easily. It centered around work, tossing ideas around and brainstorming together. It was in her nature to eat slowly, but she may have subconsciously eaten her meal even slower than usual as a means of delaying whatever experiment he felt like trying.

    When he was finished eating, he smiled. He smiled almost to himself, as if he knew what she was doing.

    With his know-it-all self, he probably knows exactly what I'm doing, she thought in disdain, polishing off the last of her salad.

    He drummed his fingertips on the dining room table while studying her. That knowing smile was still on his face. "I want you to go upstairs. I want you to stand in front of my desk. Wait for me there."

    "Shouldn't I clear the table first?" she asked him.

    His fingertips continued to drum on top of the table. "I want you to go upstairs," he repeated. "I want you to stand in front of my desk. Wait for me there."

    "Yes, Sir," she said, standing from the table. Her mind summoned up a ton of different images for what he could possibly have planned that would take place in his office. Just like last night, she had assumed that he would lead her into the red room. One thing for sure, he keeps things interesting, she thought while climbing the stairs. She approached the desk and clasped her hands in front of her.

    Five minutes went by, and he still hadn't joined her in the office. After ten minutes, her brows knitted together. A short while later, she heard his footsteps on the stairs. She stared straight ahead, trying to look nonchalant.

    "Look straight ahead," he instructed even though she was already doing that.

    One of his hands touched the back of her neck and smoothed down the curve of her back. "Hands flat on the desk," he commanded softly.

    To do that, she had to lean forward. The material of her skirt shifted, and she could feel that her rear end was exposed. Anxiety rose up within her and she tried to squash it.

    The hand he held against her lower back continued lower, grazing over the black, ruffled skirt she wore. His hand brushed across the curve of her rear end, and her knees grew weak. He squeezed an ass cheek and a moment later, he was pressing light kisses to her shoulder blade.

    She released a tiny moan when she felt the tip of his tongue on her upper back.

    He straightened his posture and told her, "I want you to continue leaning in that position. But I want you to put your hands behind your back."

    It took time for brain to process the command. She had been in complete rapture with the feel of his lips and tongue against her skin. Figuring that he was going to handcuff her since he had mentioned handcuffs earlier, she positioned her hands behind her back.

    He gently grabbed her hands. Then she felt something being looped around both of her wrists. Something thick and relatively heavy.

    He's not cuffing me. He's tying rope around my wrists, she realized.

    His motions were precise, as always. The rope wound around her wrists; she lost count how many times. Once her wrists were bound together, he leaned forward and kissed her upper back again, his hands reclaiming their position on her hips.

    The tips of her breasts touched the top of the desk. She winced at how cold the desk felt, but didn't have long to think about it, because then Aubrey was pulling her hips toward him. He was pressing his pelvis into her so she could feel how hard he was. And then one of his hands moved from her hip to the hem of her skirt. With a flick of his wrist, his hand was beneath her skirt, moving around her thigh while nipping at her shoulder with his teeth. A shudder rolled through her body when his hand nestled between her thighs. If her hands were free, she probably would have gripped the edge of the desk for support; sadly, she didn't have that luxury with her hands tied behind her back.

    His fingers worked their way inside of her. When it came to using his hands, he had a gift. When it came to sex in general, he had a lot of gifts, but he worked his hands in ways that she hadn't yet mastered with her own hands. Using speed variation, fast flicking, and squeezing to drive her absolutely crazy. Soon, he had her thighs trembling around his hand. "Do you like that?" he asked, his voice deep and close to her ear.

    "Yes, Sir," she moaned out, already on the verge of climax.

    "Good. That's good." He withdrew his hand and then he was standing.

    Still leaning over the desk, she waited. The expectation was that he was going to drop his sweatpants and give her the business, so to speak. That expectation did not come to fruition.

    He pulled away from her and walked around the desk. Smoothing down his black t-shirt, he seated himself and placed his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

    Not knowing if she was allowed to look at him, she dropped her gaze but confusion set in. Is he really going to start working right now?

    He did just that. The typing and paper shuffling started back up, while she continued to lean over the desk.

    She felt awkward, but held her position since he hadn't given her any further orders.

    "Hmmm." He flipped through the pagesof the document in his hands. With a creased brow, he lifted a hand and lickedhis forefinger, an action he habitually did before flipping pages. The seriousexpression on his face faltered and he closed his eyes. His tongue lingered onhis fingertip. "You taste delicious, by the way," he commendedsoftly. "As always."