Mr. Rochester: British Bad Boy (Classics Made Smutty Book 1)

by Marian Tee

  His words should’ve frightened me, but instead excitement sweeps over my body, and I can only moan. I want it. I want him to tear me apart.

  And it’s as if Mr. Rochester has heard me because the next moment the movements of his cock have changed.

  He’s ramming it into me relentlessly now, so damn hard my body slides up and down the bed with every thrust.

  And it’s good. So damn good. Oh God it’s soooo gooood---

  “Please.” I no longer care that I’m begging. “Please don’t stop.”

  “Never.” And Mr. Rochester rears up to his knees, placing my legs over his shoulders before shoving his cock back into me.

  I scream.

  He starts pounding into me, and I find myself gripping the bed covers tightly.

  “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.”

  And without warning I start to come.

  “Oh Gooooood---”

  Mr. Rochester plunges his monstrous cock into me one last time with a low growl. A second later and I feel him shooting his hot sticky cum into me.

  My feet dig against his back as I try to push myself up, wanting all of it.

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  Fill me with your cum, Mr. Rochester.

  A part of me had believed it would end there.

  And yes. I know. It’s stupid.

  A man like Mr. Rochester would never be satisfied with just one round---

  And I’m secretly glad of that.

  Following my first time, Mr. Rochester had carried me to the shower and cleaned me up. His movements had been careful and gentle, but while it had been terribly sweet I also had to remind myself not to feel bad about how experienced he seemed.

  You got yourself into this with your eyes wide open, Reed.

  Mr. Rochester had never lied about his past. I had no excuse to feel upset about being confronted by the fact that Mr. Rochester had sexual partners before me.

  No excuse…and yet the feeling had continued to linger in the brief moments that I was alone, tormenting me with images of Mr. Rochester with other women.

  Women who were more beautiful and more accomplished, women who were more suitable for him than I could ever be…

  The only times those painful thoughts had faded were when I was in Mr. Rochester’s arms, which fortunately happened more often than not. Mr. Rochester and I had fucked for five nights straight---

  And God oh God, the things we did in those 120 hours---

  We had only eaten and slept because we had to.

  But other than that it really had been fucking nonstop.

  Against the wall. On the floor. In the shower. Over the table. On the chair.

  And in every position he could manage to convince me---

  Standing up. Sixty-nine. Doggie. Seated on his lap.

  “Do I even ask what you’re thinking?” Mr. Rochester’s question, spoken in a quietly amused tone breaks the silence inside the limousine and hauls me back to the present.

  “It’s nothing.” I avert my gaze as I speak and lace my fingers together over my lap. After nearly one week of nonstop shagging, Mr. Rochester and I are now back to our regular routine---

  And it’s a good thing, I tell myself doggedly. If we spend too much time together, we might end up being sick of each other---

  And you don’t want that, do you, Reed?

  Mr. Rochester sighs. “Why do you insist on lying to me, Ms. Reed?”

  I squirm on my seat. “I’m not---”

  “Is it because,” he asks at the same time, “you miss being punished?”

  What the---

  You’d think I’d be used by now to having Mr. Rochester tease me, but I’m not. Everything he says or does still gets to me, and I’m either angry…or aroused.

  Most times, it’s both…like now.

  Turning to him, I half-stammer, half-snarl, “Of course not!”

  “Liar.”

  The limousine crawls to a stop, preventing me from responding right away. Mr. Rochester steps out first and after taking his hand, I wait until I’m on my feet before muttering childishly, “I’m not lying.”

  “If you say so.” Mr. Rochester’s voice is smooth.

  Too smooth, I think irritably, which means he’s just humoring me.

  Bastard.

  When we make it inside the building, the attention we draw is as I expected, which is a hundred times worse than usual. By now, there can’t be any doubt that Mr. Rochester and I have an understanding.

  How can there be, with the way Mr. Rochester has his arm wrapped possessively around my waist?

  Is she his girlfriend, I hear one of the interns ask before the elevator doors close on us.

  I kinda want to know the answer to that myself, I think.

  Mr. Rochester catches me looking at him. “What is it?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.” And it is nothing. I don’t need a label to define what we have, I tell myself. It’s the 21st century now, Reed. As long as you and Mr. Rochester are having fun without harming anyone---

  Then who cares what other people think, right?

  Easier said than done, I realize a moment later.

  When we make it to the penthouse floor, Mr. Rochester takes my hand as he leads me out of the elevator, and it’s all I can do to keep my head high even as most of the women shoot me dirty looks whenever Mr. Rochester isn’t looking.

  As expected, I think with a silent sigh.

  When we reach my desk, I try digging my feet in, saying, “This is me.”

  “I know.” Mr. Rochester doesn’t stop walking. “But it’s not where I want you to be.”

  And so I’m forcibly dragged into his office with him.

  As soon as the door closes, I throw my hands up in exasperation, exclaiming, “What the hell’s that about? Didn’t we agree we’d do this low key?”

  Mr. Rochester looks genuinely bemused. “That was low key.”

  It was?

  “If I had done what I wanted to do, then we’d have been making out in the elevator.”

  “Oh.” All sorts of explicit images flash in my mind, deflating my anger and making me aroused instead.

  He smirks. “Interested?”

  “N-no.” But the word comes out a croak.

  “Liar.”

  Absolutely, I think. Even so I scowl at him, muttering, “I’m serious about keeping this low-key. Everyone’s probably talking about us now, and I’m sure they all think I’m your newest bimbo.”

  “Then they’re idiots,” Mr. Rochester dismisses with a shrug. “Anyone only has to be in your company for five minutes to know you’re not the type.”

  Oh.

  “Secondly, your boobs aren’t big enough.”

  OH!

  “You fucking---” But then I meet his sapphire eyes, see the gleam of amusement in them, and grimace, realizing he’s only pulling my leg. “Bastard.” But I have a hard time keeping myself from laughing.

  Mr. Rochester’s lips curve, but his tone is gently chiding when he says, “You care too much about what other people say.”

  “To be honest,” I can’t help mumbling, “I never did…until you.”

  One eyebrow arches. “Is this true?”

  I nod jerkily. Years ago, I had left home and never looked back, not even when it reached me that my step-aunt had made up all sorts of lies about my sudden disappearance.

  I ran away with an ex-convict.

  I got out of town because I had to have an abortion.

  I checked myself in for drug rehab.

  And those were already among the nicer things that had been said.

  There were other stories, more disgusting and all completely untrue, but I hadn’t even lost a single night’s sleep on any of them. As long as I knew the truth it was enough for me, but with Mr. Rochester---

  My lips compress.

  There’s just something about this man that makes me feel overexposed and oversensitive, and I find myself caring about every damn little thing. Something about him is so damn…
different. I’ve never even found myself crushing on a guy, but then Mr. Rochester acts like the biggest ass in the world to me, and what do I do in return?

  Jump into bed with him and offer my virginity on a silver platter.

  I look at Mr. Rochester. Dressed in a handmade Italian suit of dark grey, he looks even more stunningly handsome than the first time we met, and when our eyes meet and his lips curve into this devastatingly sexy and annoying smirk---

  I have this really bad feeling I’ve been doomed to be under this guy’s command for as long as I live.

  “And aren’t I lucky,” I mutter sarcastically under my breath.

  Mr. Rochester, already standing behind his desk as he browses through his morning papers, glances up at hearing me speak. “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” I say sweetly. “May I go now?”

  “Not yet.”

  I scowl. “Why not?”

  “Because I have something to tell you.” Mr. Rochester crooks a finger towards me. “Come here, Ms. Reed.”

  I consider disobeying him.

  “Now.”

  Or maybe I’m just pretending to consider disobeying him, I think uneasily, so I can hear him order me around.

  Gaaaah.

  Either I’m suffering from temporary insanity---

  Or I’m just plain masochistic.

  It’s a horrible thought, but even so I find myself moving towards him.

  Mr. Rochester settles himself on his seat, and my heart lurches.

  Oh no.

  Is he going to---

  Mr. Rochester taps his lap.

  I shake my head vehemently. “No.”

  But our company’s resident bad boy only smiles, purring, “Yes.” And when he taps his lap once more, it’s like having my willpower sucked away and all of a sudden the only thing I need to do is whatever it is he wants to do.

  Shit.

  I am a masochist.

  Mr. Rochester reaches for me, and when I sit stiffly on his lap, he croons, “Relax, my dear.”

  Again: easier said than done.

  But there’s nothing I can do, with Mr. Rochester already pulling me towards him, forcing me to lean against him, my back pressed to his chest---

  That’s when I feel his monstrous cock stirring underneath me, and a bolt of sensual excitement strikes me, making my body shudder.

  Oooooh.

  “Last week,” Mr. Rochester whispers into my ear, “was one of the most enjoyable times I’ve had in recent years.”

  The sweet words catch me unaware, and I say awkwardly, “O-oh?”

  “I want more of it.”

  Oh.

  “But unfortunately---”

  And of course there’s a but, I think darkly. All kinds of worst-case scenarios rush to my mind, and just about every one of them involves Mr. Rochester dumping me for another woman. Unable to bear the possibility that it’s so, I blurt out, “Are you ending things?”

  Mr. Rochester turns me around to face him, and I catch sight of the flash of exasperation in his eyes as he remarks, “A negative Nancy, aren’t you?”

  My face remains stoic, and I ask flatly, “Are you or aren’t you?”

  “No, my dear.” His voice is amused. “I’ve barely had my fill of you so why the bloody hell would you think I’d end things this soon?”

  Oh. His words alleviate my worries somewhat, but even so I say defensively, “You can’t blame me. You’ve been acting so shady since you said you were going to tell me something. I mean, why don’t you just say it---”

  “I’ll be gone for two weeks.”

  My jaw drops. Two weeks? Two weeks?

  Mr. Rochester pulls me back closer to him, murmuring, “I’m sorry it’s sudden. I only got the call about the emergency in London earlier.”

  “It’s your life.” My voice is stiff. I try pulling away from Mr. Rochester, but my boss doesn’t let me up.

  “Are you mad?” His uninjured hand moves up to cup my breast, and I hate the way it immediately swells at his touch despite the inner chaos I’m struggling with.

  “I’m not mad.” But I can’t help slapping his hand away. Seriously, two weeks? When he chuckles, my hackles rise, and I snarl, “I’m really not. Okay? In fact, I wish you a safe trip.”

  Mr. Rochester’s lips twitch. “You don’t sound like you mean it.” His hand goes back to my breast, and I slap it away again.

  “Will you stop---” But my voice weakens when his fingers find my nipple.

  Gah.

  How desperately horny am I for this guy?

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Rochester suggests softly, “what you mean to say is that you’re going to miss me?” He tweaks my nipple in the end, and my breath stutters.

  “N-never---” But I end up gasping as he pinches my nipple harder.

  Mr. Rochester’s mouth touches my ear. “Consider it said.”

  Even knowing he’s only deliberately provoking me, I still can’t help gritting out, “I didn’t say anything, bastard---”

  Mr. Rochester forces me to turn towards him with a smirk. “I’m going to miss you, too.” And then he’s kissing me.

  Hard.

  My toes curl even as I do my best to keep from succumbing to his kiss.

  “Promise me you’ll be a good girl,” he murmurs against my lips.

  I shake my head, just to be contrary.

  He nips my lips. “Promise me, Jane.”

  Ah God, he’s so unfair. He knows what it does to me when he calls me that.

  “Fine.” My voice is sulky.

  “Good girl.” His lips move down the side of my neck. “I’ll call you every night.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say sarcastically even as I can’t help arching my neck. “I’ve heard that before.” But that’s a lie. I’ve never been close enough to any guy to receive such a promise, and it’s only my way of bracing myself for disappointment.

  And the blasted man seems to know it since my words just make him chuckle before he draws the tender skin of my neck into his mouth---

  Aaaaah.

  “Try not to weep tears of joy when I prove you wrong, mm?”

  I’m unable to answer. The way he’s sucking on my neck has taken over my senses. I vaguely feel him moving as he does, but I’m too lost in the feelings he’s evoking to pay attention until---

  “W-what are you doing?” I manage to gasp when I realize that he has us both on our feet and he’s gently exerting pressure on my back, causing me to bend over his desk.

  “A parting gift,” Mr. Rochester croons, “for you to remember me by while I’m away.”

  I hear the distinct sound of his pants being unzipped.

  My eyes widen. No. My gaze jerks towards the door. I don’t think it’s even locked.

  Mr. Rochester pushes my skirt up to my waist.

  Oh my God.

  “No---” But I end up whimpering as Mr. Rochester calmly rips my panties off.

  He starts rubbing the head of his cock against my pussy, and I feel myself becoming wet with every stroke of contact.

  “You c-can’t---” And yet my fingers are already gripping the edges of his desk, preparing to hold on instead of letting go.

  My eyes squeeze shut. I’m so hopeless. So damn hopeless when it comes to----

  Aaaaah.

  Mr. Rochester has finally thrust inside me, the monstrous girth of his cock causing the walls of my pussy to expand deliciously.

  When he starts to move, his pace is excruciatingly slow, and I can’t help gasping, “Please.”

  “Please what?” he rasps out even as his thrusts remain steady and leisurely paced.

  My fingers tighten around the edges. It’s good. It’s so good. But it’s not enough. “P-please---”

  “Didn’t I teach you to say what you want?”

  I can no longer bear the torture, and I gasp, “Faster. Harder---”

  His cock withdraws and shoves back in. But this time it’s exactly how I want it, and I manage to swallow back a scream even as my en
tire body bursts into flames.

  Yes, yes, yes!

  Mr. Rochester begins pounding into me, harder and faster, and my breasts begin to slide back and forth against the surface of his desk.

  Papers and pens start falling, littering the carpeted floor, but neither of us stops, and I can only close my eyes more tightly as I do my best to keep my cries to myself.

  So good. So good. So good---

  Mr. Rochester slaps my ass.

  Ah!

  “How does that feel, my dear?” He slaps it again, and this time I can’t help letting out a little cry---

  But it’s not out of pain, and we both know it.

  His thrusts become more forceful, and so do his slaps. I imagine my ass is a fiery shade of red now, but somehow the thought only arouses me even more.

  So good. So good. So good.

  My body starts to tighten, and behind me Mr. Rochester lets out a rough groan.

  “Come with me,” he says hoarsely.

  It’s all the invitation I need.

  He plunges into me one final time, and I come with a shuddering moan. Mr. Rochester groans again, and then he’s shooting his cum into me, his seed mingling with my own release, and God, I feel so hot, so stuffed, so full---

  My eyes sweep shut.

  Yes, yes, yes.

  I love it when he’s filling my pussy with his cum.

  When Mr. Rochester finally pulls out, I’m bone-tired and barely able to lift my head while Mr. Rochester draws me to his private washroom. Exhaustion turns me into a doll in his hands, and I can only let Mr. Rochester clean me up and set my appearance to right.

  “There,” Mr. Rochester murmurs. “You look so bloody innocent once more.”

  I follow his gaze to my reflection on the full-length mirror.

  He’s right, I realize absently. My hair, my clothes – everything’s been perfectly restored. It’s like nothing happened at all, and the only proof that something did is my bare pussy still quivering faintly under my skirt.

  When we step out of his washroom, I sit on the couch and watch him get ready to leave.

  Two weeks. He’ll be gone for two weeks. Two weeks.

  Mr. Rochester bends down to kiss my forehead. “Take care of yourself for me.”

  And then he’s gone.

  My first night alone in Mr. Rochester’s home leaves me feeling oddly lost. It confuses and angers me, so much so that when his promised call finally does come, I find myself pretending to be asleep and leaving Consuelo to make up excuses on my behalf.