Warning: smut ahead
The meeting had been going on for over an hour, but your attention had never been on the conversation.
You were curled up in the corner of the room, legs tucked beneath you on the velvet chaise lounge Joker insisted on placing there "just for you, doll." A book was propped in your lap, but your eyes hadn't touched a page in at least twenty minutes.
No, your eyes were on him.
Joker—sat at the head of the long mahogany table, shirt open halfway down his chest, exposing the smooth lines of his tattooed torso. His silver chains glinted in the low lighting, his voice deep and smooth as he gave out orders. His men sat around the table, hanging onto every word. He didn't yell. He didn't have to. Every ounce of his dominance was in his presence—in the way he leaned back in his chair, lazy and deadly, like he had all the time in the world and could take your life with a single smile.
God, he looked so good like this.
Your thighs squeezed together involuntarily, desperate for friction. The sound of his voice alone made heat pool low in your belly, each word like silk wrapping around your core. And when he leaned forward, his forearms on the table, veins flexing as he spread his hands out with casual command—you felt it. A full, aching throb between your legs.
You tried to breathe through it. Tried to tell yourself to wait. Be patient. Be good.
But you weren't. You weren't good, not when it came to him.
A soft, helpless whimper escaped before you could stop it.
It was quiet. Barely there.
But he heard it.
His head turned, slowly. That green gaze snapped to you, and suddenly you were caught—burning under the weight of it.
He didn't say anything at first. Just stared. Studied. Then he stood, his chair scraping back. His men looked up.
"Out," he said, his voice deceptively calm.
No one questioned it. They all stood and shuffled out, careful not to look at you. Not to linger.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Now it was just you and him.
His tongue swiped across his bottom lip as he stalked toward you, slow and smooth. You felt like prey—heart pounding, lungs tight, skin tingling with anticipation.
"Couldn't hold it together, huh?" he murmured, stopping in front of you. He reached out and tilted your chin up with one gloved finger, his smirk lazy and knowing. "Poor little thing, sittin' over there all wet and squirmy while Daddy talks business."
Your breath caught. That word always did something to you.
"I—I tried to be quiet..."
"I know you did," he cooed. "And now Daddy's gonna reward you for being so patient."
He tugged you to your feet and pushed you gently against the cold edge of his desk. His hands were on your thighs, spreading them open, his body slotting between them.
You gasped as his fingers slipped beneath your skirt, dragging your panties down your legs slowly—like he wanted to savor every inch.
"Soaked through," he growled. "Just from watching me."
He sank to his knees without another word, tossing your panties aside. Then his hands gripped your thighs, and his mouth—God, his mouth—was on you.
Your head fell back with a broken moan as his tongue slid between your folds, slow and deliberate. He groaned like he tasted heaven, his fingers digging into your skin to keep you still.
He licked you like it was his favorite thing in the world—soft, then rough, then fast and deep. And when he sucked your clit into his mouth, your knees nearly gave out.
"Stay still for me, baby," he murmured against you, breath hot, voice husky. "Let Daddy take care of you."
Your fingers tangled in his green hair, tugging as you rocked your hips against his face. He growled in approval, gripping your ass and pulling you closer.
Your orgasm built fast, the pressure curling tight in your belly, your whole body trembling.
When it hit, you cried out—legs shaking, eyes squeezed shut, his name falling from your lips in a breathless whimper.
He didn't stop until you were limp, your thighs twitching from overstimulation.
Then he stood—his mouth wet, eyes blazing—and unzipped his pants.
"Think you can take more?" he asked, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds.
You nodded fast, still breathless, desperate. "Yes, yes—please, Daddy."
He grinned, wicked and feral. "That's my girl."
And then he was inside you—hard, thick, stretching you open as your back arched off the desk. The stretch stung in the best way, your walls fluttering around him as he bottomed out with a guttural moan.
He fucked you like he owned you—because he did. Deep, rough thrusts that filled you over and over, his hands gripping your hips like he couldn't get close enough.
Your nails dug into his back. His lips crashed into yours—sloppy and possessive.
"Say it," he panted against your mouth. "Tell me whose pussy this is."
"Yours," you gasped. "Only yours."
"That's right," he growled, slamming into you harder. "Mine."
When you came again, you saw stars—legs wrapped around his waist, his name a prayer on your lips.
And when he spilled inside you, holding you tight to his chest, you felt claimed.
Owned.
Loved—in that wild, fucked-up way only he could love.
