Archive of Our Own ^beta

There was one feature you had always, shamefully, found sexy in a man - a prominent nose. And with one, of course, came the promise of a good package in their lower region.

The thing is that, that deemed feature that you fetishize about was unfortunately gifted upon your boss. So instead of listening to him drone on about weekly visions and long-term growth strategies at the head of the conference table; his words were just a distant rhythmic drone, a mere soundtrack to the silent filthy thoughts that swirled through your head that would surely be considered a sin.

Your gaze, treacherous as it was, invariably drifted to the one feature that could unravel your composure entirely: that magnificent, commanding nose.

It had your thighs clenching beneath the flimsy shield of your desk. You imagined the feel of it, the slight scrape of it against your throat, your inner thighs… a wave of heat coursed through you so intense it was a miracle your blush didn't set the papers on fire.

A soft, choked snicker from your right, barely concealed by a demurely raised hand, pulled you from your reverie. Your colleague, Sarah, shot you a knowing look, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

She was well-aware of your particular weakness, an office joke that had become a shared, secret fantasy among the women in the office. They all saw it, the undeniable magnetism of Vincent Whittman, but you, you were the one who was completely undone by it.

Just then, Vincent paused his pacing, turning his head directly towards you. His sharp mismatched eyes pierced right through your flimsy professional facade.

You froze, a soft gasp catching in your throat as your body responded with a jolt of pure, unadulterated arousal. You coughed, a pathetic, dry sound, and quickly ducked your head, focusing on a random spreadsheet as if your life depended on it.

The heat in your cheeks bloomed into a full-body flush, and you could feel the slick warmth pooling between your legs, a damning testament to your sinful thoughts.

By the time the meeting mercifully concluded, you were a trembling, embarrassing mess. You felt utterly soaked, a state of acute awareness that had you praying the dark fabric of your skirt would hide. You waited for Sarah, gathering your things with trembling hands, desperate for the escape of the exit.

But just as you reached the door, a firm hand landed on your shoulder, the weight of it sending a jolt of cold sweat skittering down your spine.

You turned slowly, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Yes…sir?" you managed, your voice a pathetic squeak.

You looked up, way up, into Vincent’s face. His expression was unnervingly stoic, his eyes a cool unreadable mask as they swept over you, from your flushed face down to your clenched fists. You swallowed hard, the sound loud in the sudden silence of the empty room.

Then, as if flipping a switch, his lips curved into that familiar, disarming smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes,

"I would like to have a word with you," he said, his gaze shifting to the doorway where Sarah hesitated. His smile tightened, a subtle, clear dismissal. "Alone."

She gave you a look of mixed concern and curiosity, nodding slowly. "I'll wait for you by the exit," she murmured, before pulling the door shut. The soft click of the latch echoed like a gunshot, sealing your fate.

"She'll be waiting for a bit then," Vincent stated, his voice a low, smooth purr that vibrated through the floorboards and up your legs.

"Pardon?" you whispered, your mind struggling to catch up.

He took a step closer, the scent of his expensive cologne; sandalwood and something clean, like ozone - filling your senses and clouding your thoughts further.

"I'm here to discuss your unprofessional behavior these days," he clarified, his tone losing its softness, sharpening with an edge of steel. "Especially during meetings. Your attention seems to be... elsewhere. Detached from the matters at hand. Is there a problem in your private life that is affecting your efficiency, or are you simply losing interest in your work here?"

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as they scrutinized your every reaction, and you felt your blush deepen under his intense scrutiny.

"No-no, sir," you stammered, taking an involuntary step back, only to feel the cool edge of the conference table press against the back of your thighs.

"I just… I've been a little out of it, that's all! I have been trying my best with the journal you entrusted to me, so I've been working at home as well. I think I might just be a bit tired from pulling all-nighters is all!" You let out a dry, unconvincing laugh, the sound brittle in the charged air.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across Vincent's lips, a look that suggested he didn't believe a single word of your flimsy excuse.

 It was more than disbelief; it was the smug amusement of a man who knew the truth and was simply toying with his prey, enjoying the show. "Oh? Do tell me what you have been working on so diligently," he mused, taking another deliberate step forward.

You mirrored his movement in reverse, your backside colliding solidly with the table, trapping you. You began to ramble, your words a frantic, jumbled mess. "…And then the interview with the man who s-said about how they didn't like the atmosphere…"

You could see it in his eyes, the utter disinterest in your report. He wasn't listening to your words; he was watching the way your lips moved as you spoke, the frantic flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat, the way your eyes kept darting back to his face, to that one feature.

And then, as if to confirm his suspicions, he slowly, consciously raised a hand. His index finger extended, tracing the strong, prominent bridge of his own nose.

If he hadn't been watching you so closely, he might have missed it: the sharp, involuntary clenching of your thighs, the way your breath hitched, and your words faltered for a fraction of a second before you stumbled to correct yourself.

‘Caught you.’

The smirk on his face vanished, replaced by an expression of dark, predatory satisfaction. He cut you off mid-sentence, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur that sent a shiver straight through you. "Did you pull all-nighters working," he paused, letting the question hang in the air, "or pleasing yourself?"

You froze, every muscle in your body tensing as a wave of angry and undeniably aroused- humiliation washed over you. "W-what?" you choked out, your eyebrows scrunching in a mixture of fury and thrilling heat. "Are you insane?"

"You didn't answer my question," he pressed, his voice unwavering.

Fury took over. You raised your hand, intending to slap that smug, knowing look right off his handsome face. But he was faster.

His hand shot out, catching your wrist in a fierce, unyielding grip. The strength in his fingers was absolute, not painful, but terrifying in its finality, a clear demonstration that you were completely at his mercy. He held your trembling, captured hand for a moment, his eyes locked on yours, before slowly, deliberately, bringing it to his face.

He pressed his lips against your knuckles, a kiss that was both a mockery of chivalry and a brand of possession.

"Pardon me for my vulgar words," he murmured against your skin, his voice a low, velvety rasp that made your knees weak. "Let me rephrase."

He didn't release your hand, instead using his grip to pull you infinitesimally closer. You stood frozen, unable, unwilling to pull away. “Do you touch yourself thinking of me?"

The silence that followed his question was a physical presence, a taut string vibrating in the space between your bodies. A flutter of your fingers against his unyielding grip, was your only reply.

You didn't want to pull away. You were ensnared, held captive not just by the iron grip, but by the hypnotic intensity of his gaze and the intoxicating scent of his cologne that seemed to wrap around you like a silken trap.

"Mr. Whittman, I assure you that is not the case-" Your voice was a flimsy thing, a threadbare whisper that did nothing to convince him or yourself.

"Hm? Is that so?" He tilted his head, a predator studying its cornered prey, his eyebrows arching in mock disbelief.

He slowly raised his free hand, not to touch you, but to point his index finger, a single damning accusation aimed at the fabric of your skirt.

"And this," he murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate, conspiratorial whisper, "this patch on your skirt is from a water spillage then?"

Your eyes followed the trajectory of his finger, a dawning horror blooming in your chest.

There it was, a darker, tell-tale grey patch on the charcoal fabric, a slick sheen under the sterile office lights that screamed your guilt.

Mortification, so sharp and visceral it felt like a physical blow, crashed over you. You hung your head, the curtain of your hair a flimsy shield against his piercing gaze as you wished for the floor to open and swallow you whole.

He cooed, the sound a shocking contrast to the predatory tension of moments before. "Sweetheart, no need for embarrassment." The endearment was a spark against your feverish skin. "I am just hurt you didn't trust me enough to come forward and tell me."

You felt a cool, firm touch on your chin as his fingers gently but inexorably tilted your head up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

He leaned in closer, the space between you evaporating until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. His left eye, the toxic one, seemed to widen a fraction, swallowing the light and holding you captive in its depths. His voice was barely a breath, a final, devastating question that sealed your fate.

"Do you trust me?"

A desperate, last-ditch effort to reclaim some semblance of control surfaced, a flimsy shield against the onslaught of his dominance. "No, I-" The words were meant to be a fiery declaration, a barrier of defiance, but they emerged as a meek, stuttering whimper, utterly unconvincing.

The sound was all the permission he needed.

A low, dismissive scoff rumbled in his chest, and then his lips were on yours. It wasn't a gentle persuasion but a firm, punishing collision, a deliberate silencing of your pathetic lie. You offered no protest, your body betraying you the moment his mouth met yours, and you could feel the curve of his smirk against your lips, a silent, gloating victory.

He pressed his body into yours, an overwhelming force that enveloped your smaller frame, lifting you with an effortless strength until you were seated on the polished oak of the conference table. Your legs, acting on pure instinct, wrapped around his waist, caging him to you in an involuntary act of surrender.

You tried to meet his kiss with a semblance of softness, a hesitant exploration, but he was having none of it.

He was hungry, a man starved, and his kiss was a consuming fire.

He licked at the seam of your lips, a demanding request for entry, and when you hesitated, a moment of foolish resistance, he retaliated with a sharp, deliberate nip at your bottom lip. Simultaneously, his hand, which had been gripping your hip, moved to deliver a quick, stinging pinch to the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh.

You gasped at the twin shocks of pleasure-pain, and in that instant of vulnerability, his tongue invaded, claiming your mouth with a possessive, thorough exploration.

It was a twisted, intoxicating dance, a duel for dominance you were destined to lose. But you found yourself leaning into it, meeting his tongue with your own in a clumsy, desperate rhythm. He sucked and licked with an expertise that made your head spin, and a raw, uninhibited moan was torn from your throat.

Your hands flew up, gripping the lapels of his expensive suit, your fingers digging into the fine wool as you tried to anchor yourself against the dizzying whirl of sheer arousal and the intoxicating scent of his cologne that saturated the air.

When you finally parted for air, a wet, obscene sound echoed in the sterile room, a thin, glistening thread of saliva breaking between your lips as he lowered his head to the vulnerable curve of your neck.

His hands roamed your body with proprietary confidence, mapping the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as if to claim every inch.

His nose, that magnificent, arrogant nose, nuzzled into the frantic pulse point at the base of your throat. The feel of it, the solid structure pressing against your skin, was almost enough to make you climax then and there. He placed a soft, open-mouthed kiss over your pulse, then began a slow, torturous drag of his lips and the bridge of his nose down to your collarbone. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably around his waist.

"You love my nose that much?" he chuckled, the vibration a low, mocking thrum against your skin.

"I- I don't-" you lied, your voice a shaky whisper.

"Come on, sweetheart, don't deny it," he murmured, his voice laced with dark amusement. "I heard you gossiping to your little colleagues. How- dare I quote: 'I wish I could ride his-'"

Panic, hot and sharp, shot through you. You lunged forward, slapping a hand over his mouth to stop the humiliating words. He simply stilled, raising a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow in an expression of supreme, unconcealed amusement.

"Mr. Whittman," you began, your voice trembling as you grasped at the last shreds of your professionalism, "might I remind you we are still in a public space- in your conference room."

A furious blush bloomed across your cheeks, but it died when you met his gaze. The amusement was gone, replaced by a dark, predatory heat that made the air feel thick and heavy.

In a blur of motion, he grabbed your wrist, pinning both your hands above your head with one of his, his grip like an iron shackle against the cool wood of the table.

"I guess I better share my strategies then," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "And this time, you will listen."

His free hand snaked down, disappearing under the hem of your skirt. You gasped, your head turning away in a futile attempt to hide as his palm cupped your mound, the heat of his hand searing through the damp fabric of your panties. He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear:

"You become this wet just from fantasizing about riding my nose?" he chuckled, a dark, condescending sound that sent a shiver of shame and arousal straight through you. "You flatter me, my dear."

His voice was a brand against your ear, hot and possessive. The hand pinning your wrists tightened, a silent reminder of his control, while the other began to move with a maddening, deliberate slowness.

He didn't rush; he explored, the heel of his palm pressing against your sensitive mound as his long fingers curled, tracing the shape of you through the soaked cotton. Every movement was designed to unravel you, to stoke the fire he had so expertly ignited.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice losing its playful edge and sharpening with steel. When you didn't obey, too lost in the humiliating haze of your own arousal, he shifted. His body caged you in further, and he used the hand that held your wrists to grip your jaw, his fingers firm as he forced your face back towards his:

"I said, look at me. I want to see those pretty eyes when I make you fall apart."

Your lids fluttered open, your vision blurry with unshed tears of need and humiliation. His eyes were like storm clouds, dark and turbulent, lit from within by a fierce, predatory light. He watched your every micro-expression, his lips curled in a smirk of absolute triumph. With his gaze locked on yours,

The professional facade, the weak protests, the fear - it was all dissolving slowly, leaving only a raw, desperate need.

"Please," you whimpered, the word a broken, breathy sound you barely recognized as your own.

He dragged the bridge of his nose down the column of your throat, a slow, possessive gesture that was both a promise and a taunt.

"Please what?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against your skin. He increased the pressure on your clit, his thumb now working in maddening circles while two of his fingers poised at your entrance, a silent, teasing threat. " You have to use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what you want me to do with this nose you're so obsessed with."

Your last wall of resistance crumbled. The professional, the composed employee, the woman who tried to deny her own desires-all of it vanished under the relentless pressure of his touch and his words.

"You," you choked out, your voice a ragged, breathy thing. "I want to ride your nose."

A low, triumphant growl rumbled in his chest. "Good girl."

With a swift, decisive motion, his fingers hooked into the side of your panties, pulling the soaked fabric aside to expose you completely to the cool, sterile air of the room. The vulnerability was breathtaking, and you couldn't stop the shiver that wracked your body.

He didn't give you a moment to adjust. His fingers, now slick with your arousal, began to explore with devastating expertise. He traced your folds, circling your entrance without breaching it, gathering your wetness before circling your clit with a feather-light touch that was almost agonizing in its teasing. Your hips bucked off the table, a silent, begging motion.

But this was merely a prelude. With a final, lingering stroke, he removed his hand. A whine of protest escaped you before you could stop it, and he chuckled, a dark, condescending sound. "Patience." he murmured, his gaze holding yours as he began to lower his head, his intent unmistakable.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of anticipation and pure, unadulterated terror. This was it. The fantasy you had only ever dared to entertain in the darkest corners of your mind was about to become a reality.

He moved with a torturous slowness, his lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, his breath hot against your skin. And then, you felt it.

The firm, distinct pressure of the bridge of his nose pressed directly against your aching clit.

A strangled gasp tore from your throat. It was unlike anything you had ever felt. The solid, unyielding structure, the slight bump of cartilage, the sheer, possessive weight of it - it was an overwhelming, pinpointed pressure that sent shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your entire body.

He didn't move at first, just held it there, letting you get used to the sensation, letting the humiliation and the reality of the act wash over you.

"Is this what you imagined?" he rasped, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Is this how you pictured it?"

You couldn't answer. You could only writhe, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as he began to move. He dragged his nose upward in a slow, deliberate lick of pressure, then circled your clit with the tip, the friction so exquisite it was almost painful.

A string of incoherent moans and pleas fell from your lips. He was devouring you, not with his mouth, but with the very feature you had fetishized, turning your secret shame into your most profound pleasure.

Then, a new sensation shattered your focus. Something wet and impossibly soft licked at your fluttering entrance. A sharp cry was torn from your throat, and you quickly brought a hand to your face, biting down hard on the fleshy part of your palm to stifle the sound as your hips arched clean off the table.

The sick, wet sounds of his slurping flooded the sterile room, a depraved symphony of slurp! and shlick! that echoed the lewd rhythm of your heart. You whined, a high, needy sound, and your free hand flew down, fingers tangling in the thick, surprisingly soft locks of his hair, holding him to you.

He began to move his head in a slow, torturous rhythm, up and down, causing his nose to bump and grind against your clit with every pass while his mouth worked feverishly at your core.

In response, you pulled at his hair, a desperate, guiding motion, your back arching as you tried to grind yourself onto his face - onto his nose - chasing the friction with a single-minded need that obliterated all else.

You looked down, biting into the palm of your hand as drool escaping the corner of your mouth and trickled down your wrist. And when you saw the sight of him - your boss, his face buried between your thighs - it all dawned on you in a crashing, humiliating wave.

Your boss was eating you out in his conference room, and you were shamelessly grinding on his nose, using his face to chase your pleasure.

God, you felt so fucking filthy.

He felt your gaze and looked up, his eyes dark and possessive, and you felt a fresh wave of humiliation wash over you, so potent it was its own form of arousal. He chuckled against your pussy, the vibration a devastating addition to the already overwhelming stimulation.

"Look at you," he praised, his voice a thick, satisfied rumble that you felt more than heard.

 He brought a free hand up, using his fingers to spread your folds wide, exposing the sheer, glistening slickness that had poured from you. He collected a mouthful of spit, then let it glide slowly down his tongue, a single, glistening thread landing directly on your twitching, exposed clit. Your thighs trembled violently, a choked whimper escaping your bitten hand.

"So responsive. So beautiful when you're falling apart for me."

He went back down, and you tugged at his locks, returning to your previous frantic motion of grinding against him. But this time, he increased the pressure, his movements becoming more insistent, more demanding. The sound of his slurping grew louder, wetter, a testament to your arousal, and his nose bumped your clit with a faster, harder pace.

You felt the coil of pleasure deep within your belly begin to tighten, a white-hot thread threatening to snap and unravel you completely.

"That's it," he commanded, his voice a dark, hypnotic spell that wove through your haze of pleasure. "Let go. Come for me. Right here on my table."

With a few more frantic collisions of your hips against his nose and a few more masterful strokes of his tongue, you were coming undone.

The orgasm ripped through you, a violent, blinding wave of ecstasy that left you gasping and convulsing on the table.

He sealed his lips over your pulsing pussy, sucking and drinking in everything you offered, a low groan of satisfaction rumbling in his chest. Your thighs clamped down around his head, your fingers tightening in his hair, holding him to you as you rode out the most intense pleasure of your life.

You had never felt so blissed out, so utterly shattered and remade.

Is this what Heaven feels like? Not that you'd get to go there after these events.

He licked a few more slow, cleansing stripes against your sensitive hole, deciding you'd had enough as your thighs continued to tremble in the aftershocks. He rose slowly from his position, his gaze never leaving yours, staring at your appearance with a primal satisfaction.

Two words could describe it perfectly: utterly ruined.

He snickered, a low, dark sound, and his hands came to rest on your trembling thighs, pulling your hips flush with his. You let out a soft yelp, looking up at him with wide, dazed confusion.

"Did you think that was it?" he snickered again, and he rolled his hips slightly. You felt something large, hot, and firm poke at your still-sensitive entrance, and your eyes widened as you looked down.

Oh god. So it is true.

"Thankfully, I let everybody go home after the meeting," he murmured, his voice a low, possessive growl as he ground his hips into yours, letting you feel the sheer size of him through his trousers. "Or else they would see a hell of an entertainment."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and promising. "But you and I aren't leaving this room just yet."

‘I'm so sorry, Sarah,’ you thought.