Claimed by Rage Novel – Celia There are a few key things a working woman needs to keep her going when her employees call out sick for the third time this week: a double shot of espresso, a fine-tipped French manicure, and thigh-quivering orgasms to keep the stress at bay. But that doesn’t mean she needs them all at once. Caffeine and adrenaline surge through my veins in a heady cocktail of too much as my very stubborn, very delinquent not-boyfriend nudges my thighs apart with his shoulders. I knock over a jar of pens as he slides my hip to the edge of my desk. “Rage,” I hiss, digging my nails into his scalp. No matter how many times I pull out his hair, he keeps coming back every other morning, a lazy smirk on his face as he sits me on top of my desk and makes me ride his face. It’s not my idea, I promise.
He huffs, his breath hot against my panties. “I told you to stop wearing these.” “And I told you—ohhh.” His tongue feels just as wide as his shoulders as he swipes it against me, wetting my panties like an animal. My face flames as he groans, no doubt tasting my desire. He may act like an animal, but I’m the bimbo in heat who likes it. And he knows it. Rage nips my cherry through the fabric, making me buck against his face. It hurts, but only in the way that makes everything else dial up a notch. The tension. The thrill. The need pulsing between us. As much as I claim that he’s the one addicted, the counterargument that I’m not is lost in these moments, the little punches of breath, the shuffle of our clothes, the frantic way we touch each other. Because that’s how it always is: frantic, needy, insatiable. There’s no love here, but there’s something. That something keeps him coming back and me, well, coming. He presses a rough peck against my inner thigh and slides my panties down my legs. “Don’t wear these next time, Celia. I mean it.” I roll my eyes—or I try to.
They clench shut the moment he buries his face in my private part. Pleasure zings up my spine and shoots down to my toes all at once, each insistent swipe of his tongue powerful and purposeful. He’s a man on a mission, and he knows exactly how to claim victory. “R-rage,” I cry, biting my lip. Resistance may be futile, but I have to save some of my dignity. “We can’t do this. I’m working.” The burly man shoots me a quick look, like he doesn’t believe me, and hooks my calves over his shoulders, the soft fabric of his dress shirt warm and inviting. One thing I’ve always admired about him, not that I’d ever admit it, is his attire. The man doesn’t go cheap, and it shows in both texture and appearance, all of his shirts and slacks tailor-made to fit his muscled frame, stitched together with expertise that makes me jealous. I’d kill for that kind of skill.
My breath hitches as he licks my slit from stem to stern, hooking the tip of his tongue over my cherry at the last second. He chuckles as my legs seize, then pushes the flat of his palm against my inner thighs, widening my stance as he dips his tongue inside my heat. I grab the back of his giant, arrogant head and pull him closer, hoping he suffocates while he’s down there. Yeah, I guess we’re doing this. Again. I should have said no the first time he showed up at my door. Before then. The very first night we met at that ridiculously-exclusive club, I let him seduce me in the middle of a crowded room. Stupid, I now realize, quivering against his skilled tongue as he works my body into a frenzy. This is the game we play every few days: how quickly can I come on his wicked tongue? He has to be keeping track with how often he checks the Rolex strapped to his wrist. With each expert flick of his tongue, shame curls heavy inside my chest, making it harder to breathe.
I shouldn’t let him keep touching me like this, here, at my workplace. It’s not right. I’m not some desirous teenager working a retail shift—I’m the owner of this boutique. I can’t have men walking in here to tongue-intercourse me all hours of the day. People will find out. People will see. It’s only a matter of time before someone walks in— The jingle of bells at the front door makes my stomach drop. Rage is usually good with timing, arriving just after the morning rush when the shop is quiet. But today, he arrived late. It’s too close to the next wave of customers. People will stop to browse the entire street of boutiques and cafes, mine included, any second now. The bells over the door jingle a second time, and someone clears their throat out on the shop floor. No, not in any second, right now. Panic beats wildly in my chest.
“Rage. Stop. There’s a customer—” He presses his tongue flat against my cherry, swiping with slow, lazy strokes, unhurried in the slightest. I grab his hair and pull—he grunts, spreading my thighs wider apart to slip two thick fingers inside my molten core. I gasp in a breath and screw my eyes shut as he works me slow and steady, curling his fingers to tease a climax from me one stroke at a time. I come just as slowly as he works my body. A ripple of pleasure pulses from my core to my limbs, leaving me boneless and intercourse-drunk as he pulls back to stare at me. Licking my desire from his knuckles, he hums happily. “You taste like honey, krosotka. Sticky and sweet.” My face burns. The problem isn’t just Rage—it’s his brothers, too. The three of them have been paying me visits throughout the day, each one with their own MO. Rage likes to taste me. Rebel likes to touch me. Ruin likes to watch me. It’s only been two weeks, and they’re already tearing down the structure and routine I’ve carefully crafted in my life and creating space for themselves to fit.
I used to be civilized. I’d have intercourse at home, in bed, instead of wherever the mood strikes. I’d be able to look my partner in the eyes and hold love in my heart while we had intercourse—but nothing about these men is loving. They take what they want, when they want. The only blessing is that they take turns. Rage is a morning man, appearing while I’m at work and disappearing within an hour. Rebel likes to appear in the evenings, drinking my best coffee or lounging on my couch by the time I make it home. But Ruin is the true wild card—I never know where or when he’ll strike. His brothers, I can predict pretty well. Ruin is another story entirely, appearing out of thin air at all hours of the day, demanding that I touch myself… while he watches. Sometimes, in the moments before sunrise when I’m finally alone, I tell myself that it’s all one crazy dream.
That I’m still Celia Monrovia, a loveless, sexless divorcée who puts on a pretty smile while her heart secretly cracks into sharp little pieces. But then our new routine starts all over again, and Rage reminds me that this impossible situation is very real and very dirty. I take a deep breath as I come back into my body. That’s Rage’s cue to help me up. He puts me back on my feet and straightens my skirt, as though that makes me modest again. There’s nothing modest about what we just did. What we keep doing. Clearing my throat, I adjust my hair clip in the mirror. “You should leave. There are customers waiting.” I nod towards the back exit, determined not to look directly at him. I might combust from the lust burning in his gaze. I haven’t reciprocated his oral advances—not even once. He hasn’t asked. I haven’t offered. “Don’t do this again, Rage. Not this close to the lunch rush.”