He spins her around

The man didn’t speak again.

Emily heard only the shuffle of his shoes against the industrial carpet, the soft hiss of breath through his nose—then suddenly, his hands were on her, firm and unhesitating. One gripped her shoulder, the other her hip, and before she could process it—

He spun her.

Her breath hitched as she was turned roughly, her heels catching slightly on the carpet. A hard palm pressed between her shoulder blades, shoving her forward. She bent instinctively, her hips bumping the edge of the desk. The cool laminate dug into the crease of her thighs as her bare stomach met the desk surface. She gasped, bracing herself, hands splayed wide.

She couldn’t see him.

The blindfold held fast, wrapping her in darkness. But she felt him. Behind her. Against her. His chest brushing her spine, his breath ghosting over her hair as he loomed.

Then his other hand slid down.

He started at her lower back, trailing along the curve of her spine, fingers dragging lightly, maddeningly slow. Emily tensed. Her nipples throbbed, painfully hard, brushing the cold desk as she was bent forward like this—exposed, helpless.

His fingers reached her ass.

He didn’t pause. Just slipped lower, dipping between her thighs. She tried to squeeze them together on instinct, but his knees shoved hers apart, widening her stance. She felt open. Split. On display.

Then his hand slid forward.

Fingers brushed her folds—bare, slick, aching. She shuddered.

He touched her pussy like he owned it. Fingers parting her gently, then circling, teasing, pressing in just enough to make her hips twitch. He didn’t bother with gentleness. His strokes were possessive, rough, like he was testing how wet she was. Like he already knew what he was going to do with her.

Emily whimpered. Her breath fogged against the desktop. Her hands gripped the far edge.

His palm cupped her from behind, fingers spreading her folds apart with deliberate ease. His middle finger found her clit and pressed. Not soft. Not sweet. Just pressure. Enough to make her knees buckle.

“You’re already wet,” he murmured, voice low and disguised again, close to her ear. “You like being watched, don’t you?”

She shook her head—once, violently—but it wasn’t convincing.

His hand didn’t stop.

He stroked her clit in small, rough circles, forcing her hips to roll against the desk. His other hand held her in place, pressing down hard between her shoulder blades. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe through the burn building between her thighs.

“You knew someone might be watching,” he whispered. “You wanted it.”

His fingers slid lower again.

Then—two plunged inside.

Emily choked on a cry, her head snapping up. Her mouth opened, but no sound came at first—just a ragged gasp as her pussy clenched around the sudden invasion. He pumped them slowly, knuckles grinding against her entrance, thumb returning to her clit with merciless rhythm.

Wet sounds filled the quiet room.

Her breasts flattened against the desk. Her legs trembled. She couldn’t help the moan that escaped her throat—raw, involuntary.

And behind her, he just kept working her pussy like it belonged to him.