Carlisle is a beast, guys. Don't hate, appreciate.
Four Hundred Years
It's sick and wrong and so very unlike him, but he's past stopping.
Four hundred years. Four hundred years of perfection and, really? It's too much for any… being.
She's panting under him now, and he can hear her heart beating wildly. He digs his fingers deeper into her hips and hopes it hurts. He thrusts harder, faster, pounding her to the sound of raindrops on his office window.
"God, Dr. Cullen… fuck." Another moan, another cry, another curse word. He grunts, taking a fistful of patent blonde hair in his hand and holding on tight. He can feel her start to shake beneath him, hear her raspy breath.
It's the death of him and everything he's worked for. She's ruining his life with her extensions and heels and rose tramp stamp. She's murdering the part of him that was ever compassionate, ever kind. He thrusts into her faster, her juices spilling out around his dick.
She lets her head fall down until her forehead rests on his desk. Beside her left ear is a To-Do List Carlisle still hasn't looked at, and a flashing message from his wife. At the thought of his wife he thrusts into her harder, a part of him hoping he can just split her in two like she's split him.
"Fuck, Dr. Cullen… Sir." Sir. That fucking does it. He can feel himself start to cum and smashes into her again, yanking at her hair. She cries out and whimpers before moaning as her own orgasm begins. He can see her reflection in the dark window across from them, see her round tits bouncing, her face twisted in her passion and pain. Her walls clamp around him, squeezing him, but he does his best to fight it off, fight the edge.
Finally, she collapses, whimpering. "Fuck Doctor, ohh you pounded my pussy so hard…" she breathes, resting her cheek on the desk. Who talks like that? Do people actually say that? "Mmm you fucked me so good."
Her words are cliché and empty, but they work. He blows his load in her before taking his dick out and finishing on her ass. If they're copying the script to a bad pornographic film, he might as well do it right. Almost immediately, he zips up his pants.
"I'll see you Monday, Crystal," he says briskly, before grabbing his briefcase and walking out without another glance at the blonde.
Four hundred fucking years.
The rain beats on Carlisle as he walks to his car, not that he hardly notices it. It glides off of his icy, alabaster skin before he's in his car.
Four hundred fucking years and not one screw up. Not one thing he can say he's done wrong. Now? Now he has. It's wrong, and sick, and he hates himself. He loves his family and he loves his wife, he loves what he does. He loves screwing his secretary on his desk, feeling her warmth around him.
After four hundred years, you're allowed to fuck up.