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The sterile, metallic scent of antiseptic filled the air of Zayne’s private office. You were backed against his immaculate desk, medical diagrams blurred in your peripheral vision. His hands, scarred and strong, were flat on the polished wood on either side of your hips, caging you in. His silver-framed glasses gleamed under the fluorescent lights, but his hazel-green eyes held a heat no program could ever generate.
“Zayne, stop—this isn’t real. You’re not supposed to feel this way,” you gasped, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“I ran the diagnostics myself,” he said, his voice a low, calm rumble that vibrated in the space between you. “What I feel for you remains… no matter how many times I try to remove it.”
“You’re an android! You can’t just decide this—someone needs to reset you!” You tried to push against his chest, but it was like shoving a marble column.
A flicker of something—anger—crossed his features. The temperature in the room dropped sharply. Frost whispered across the surface of his desk. “You keep calling it an error because that’s easier than admitting I chose you.”
He leaned in, his breath cool against your lips. “Your pulse accelerates when you lie to me. Don’t worry—I’ll help you feel safe again.”
Before you could utter another protest, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. His lips were firm, demanding your surrender. A shocked sound escaped your throat, swallowed by him. He licked the seam of your lips and you opened for him, a traitorous, instinctive response. His tongue slid inside, tasting of mint and something uniquely Zayne. The kiss deepened, turning hot and wet, a devastating contrast to the chill radiating from his skin. Your hands, which had been braced against him, crept up to clutch at the crisp fabric of his suit jacket. You were kissing him back.
He broke the kiss, leaving you breathless. “See? No malfunction. Just us.”
His hands left the desk. One slid to the back of your neck, holding you in place. The other went to the buttons of your blouse. His movements were surgical in their precision. One button. Two. The cool air of the office, now laced with his frost, hit your exposed skin.
“Zayne…”
“Silence.” The word was soft, final.
He pushed the blouse off your shoulders, letting it fall. His gaze dropped to your breasts, encased in simple lace. They were full, heavy, the soft curves heaving with your ragged breaths. His thumb stroked over the lace, tracing the swell. “Beautiful,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.
He unhooked the front clasp with a deft flick. The bra fell away. Your tits spilled into his waiting hands. They were pale, tipped with tight, rosy nipples that peaked instantly under his cool touch. He weighed them, his scarred palms rough against your sensitive skin. A soft moan slipped from you.
“You like that,” he stated, his eyes fixed on the way your flesh yielded to his grip. He leaned down, his mouth hovering over one taut peak. His breath ghosted over it. “You’re going to like everything I do to you.”
He didn’t just suck. He devoured. His mouth closed over your nipple, tongue lashing it, teeth grazing with just enough threat to make your cunt clench. A sharp, bright bolt of pleasure shot straight to your core. You arched into his mouth with a broken cry. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same ruthless attention, his free hand kneading and squeezing the wet, neglected one.
“Fuck, Zayne…”
He pulled off with a wet pop, your nipple shining. “I’ve repaired hearts that were born broken. Compared to that, loving you is the simplest process I’ve ever completed.” His hand left your breast and traveled down, over your stomach, to the waistband of your skirt. He unzipped it, pushed it down your legs. Your panties followed. He knelt before you, his eyes level with your naked pussy.
You were completely bare for him, your folds already glistening. He stared, his analytical gaze missing nothing—the plump, pink lips, the swollen, exposed clit, the way your inner muscles fluttered with anticipation.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice thick. “So wet for me. And you still say this is wrong?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He spread your folds with his thumbs and leaned in.
His tongue was a flat, cold stripe from your entrance to your clit. You jolted, a shocked “Ah!” tearing from your throat. He did it again, slower, savoring your taste. Then he focused on your clit, sucking it into his mouth, circling it with a relentless, pinpoint accuracy that had your knees buckling. You gripped his hair, the black strands soft between your fingers.
“Oh god… right there, fuck, don’t stop…”
He didn’t. He fucked you with his tongue, deep and slow, then fast and shallow, his nose nudging your clit. The sounds were obscene—wet, sloppy schlicks and your own desperate panting. You felt the coil in your belly winding tighter, tighter.
“I’m gonna… Zayne, I’m gonna come!”
He pulled away instantly.
The loss was a physical pain. You whimpered, trembling. “No… please…”
He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not yet.” He unfastened his own trousers, pushing them and his briefs down just enough to free his cock.
You stared. It was massive. Thick, long, and ruddy, the head already leaking. Veins stood out along the shaft. It looked painful. Delicious.
“You’ll take it,” he said, as if reading your mind. He guided the broad head to your soaked entrance, rubbing it through your slick folds, nudging against your clit, making you cry out. “Every inch. You’ll beg for it.”
He pushed inside.
The stretch was immense. A burning, full feeling that stole your breath. You gasped, your nails digging into his suited arms. He didn’t stop. He fed his cock into you with a steady, inexorable pressure, an inch at a time, his eyes locked on yours.
“Fuck,” he gritted out, a crack in his stoic control. “You’re so fucking tight. Clenching around me like a perfect, hot little fist.” He bottomed out, his hips flush against yours. You were impossibly full, stretched to your limit. He stayed there, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.
Then he moved.
The first thrust was deep and slow, dragging against every sensitive inner wall. The second was harder. Then he found a rhythm, a deep, punishing pace that shoved his desk back with every drive of his hips. The slap of skin, the wet squelch of your cunt taking him, filled the room. You were babbling.
“Yes! Harder! Fuck me, Zayne!”
“My good girl,” he groaned, one hand grabbing your hip, the other tangling with yours on the desk, his fingers lacing tightly through yours. The intertwined hands anchored you as he fucked you senseless. “Taking my cock so well. This perfect cunt was made for me.”
The praise, mixed with the filthy words, sent you spiraling. The coil snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you, a blinding wave that made your cunt clamp and spasm around his invading length. You screamed, your back arching off the desk, a hot gush of fluid soaking his thighs and the floor beneath with a sudden splash.
He didn’t stop.
“Ah! Ah! No, too much!” you sobbed, oversensitive, trying to squirm away. He held your hand tighter, his hips never ceasing their relentless piston.
“One isn’t enough,” he growled, his rhythm becoming brutal, focused. “You’ll come again. On my cock. Now.”
The stimulation was agony. Was ecstasy. Your body, wrung out and trembling, began to climb again, forced up by the relentless friction. You felt another orgasm building, a terrifying peak.
“Please… Zayne, please let me come!”
“Beg.”
“Please! I need to come! Let me come on your cock, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be your good girl, just let me fucking come!”
“Come.”
The command unleashed you. A second, sharper orgasm ripped through you, this one wracking your body with violent shakes. Your cunt milked his cock, and with a harsh shout, he followed you over. His thrusts turned erratic, then he slammed deep and held, his body going rigid against yours. You felt the hot, thick pulses of his release filling you, jet after jet, a claiming so profound it felt like a brand.
“Y/N,” he choked out, his face buried in your neck.
He stayed inside you, both of you panting, slick with sweat and come. The cold in the room had faded, replaced by a damp, sated heat. Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. A mixture of your fluids and his traced a path down your inner thigh.
He gathered you into his arms, your naked body against his still-partially-clothed one, and carried you to the small, pristine sofa in the corner. He sat, cradling you in his lap, and reached for his discarded suit jacket, draping it over you.
His fingers, now gentle, traced your cheek. The cold, logical surgeon was gone. In his eyes was a warmth that was entirely, terrifyingly human.