Two thick fingers glide through my wetness, parting me, pressing inside with a slow, deliberate stretch that steals my breath. I’m so ready it hurts, and he knows it. He curls his fingers, finds that spot that makes my spine arch, and strokes, steady, relentless.
“Oh, God, yes,” I moan.
He adds a third finger, stretching me wider, and I moan louder. His thumb circles my clit, slick pressure that winds the coil tighter, tighter.
I’m suddenly close, so close, but he keeps me teetering on the edge, slowing when I clench, speeding up when I whimper. The city blurs beyond the windows, and all I feel is him, his fingers inside me, his breath hot on the back of my thigh, the scrape of his stubble against my skin.
Then he removes his fingers and spins me back around. He tastes himself on my tongue when he kisses me again, deep and filthy, and then he lifts me. My legs lock around his waist like they were made to fit there, skirt still bunched at my hips.
The couch is cool against my back when he lays me down, but his body is furnace-hot above me. I reach for him, fingers sliding over the hard plane of his stomach, tracing the ink that disappears beneath the waistband of his slacks.
He’s still half-dressed, slacks shoved low enough to free himself, and the sight of him straining against the fabric makes my mouth water.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod frantically in response.
He spreads my thighs wider, eyes locked on mine, and drags the blunt head of his cock through my slick folds. I arch up, trying to take him, but he holds my hips still with one hand, the other braced beside my head.
“Look at me,” he growls, and I do. I watch his face as he pushes in, stretching me open inch by inch. The burn is perfect, the fullness overwhelming, and when he’s seated to the hilt, we both groan.
He starts shallow, rolling his hips, letting me adjust, letting me feel every thick inch of him. My nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down the cotton of his shirt.
His thumb finds my clit again, circling in time with his strokes, and the pressure builds fast, coiling low in my belly. I clench around him, and he hisses, pace stuttering.
“Fuck, Savannah.” He drives deeper, harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the quiet office. My breasts bounce with every thrust. I’m close again, the edge sharp and bright, but he doesn’t let me fall.
He pulls out suddenly, and I whimper at the loss, but then he’s flipping me and moving over to the desk. He bends me over there, papers avalanche to the floor, a pen clatters, and I don’t care.
He grips my hips, angles me just right, and thrusts back in with one smooth stroke that punches the air from my lungs.
From behind, he’s deeper, harder, the angle perfect. His hand fists in my hair, gentle but firm, arching my back as he sets a punishing rhythm. The desk rocks beneath us, wood groaning, and I push back to meet every thrust, chasing the friction, the stretch, the way he fills me completely.
His other hand slides around to my front, fingers finding my clit again, rubbing fast, slick circles that make my vision spark. I’m moaning his name, over and over, the sound muffled against the desk, and he’s grunting mine, low and rough.
I’m right there, teetering, muscles clenching, but he slows again, dragging it out, making me beg with my body. The city lights blur through the tears in my eyes, and all I feel is him—his cock dragging along my walls, his fingers on my clit, his breath hot against my neck where his shirt brushes my skin. I’m trembling, desperate, and he knows it.
He lifts me off the desk without breaking rhythm and backs me to the nearest wall.
My legs wrap high around his waist; he pins me there with his hips. He drives up into me hard and fast. The wall is cool against my back. I’m clenching, spiraling, the coil snapping tight.
“Come for me, princess,” he rasps against my neck, and I shatter, crying out as pleasure crashes over me in waves. He follows seconds later, thrusting deep, pulsing inside me, groaning my name like it’s the only word he knows.
“Ledger,” I manage, my voice hoarse and wrecked.
“Yeah, princess?”
I lift my head to look at him, taking in his face. The silver hair is messy from my hands. The blue eyes look at me with something that makes my chest ache.
“I remember,” I whisper. “Everything. The whole night.”
His arms tighten around me. “Tell me.”
“I remember you being a very handsome groom.” A smile tugs at my lips despite how exhausted I am. “The most handsome groom I’ve ever seen, actually. Even with Elvis officiating.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine. “You weren’t so bad yourself. Most beautiful bride in Vegas that night.”
“I remember the way you looked at me when you saw me in that white dress. Like I was—” My voice catches. “Like I was everything.”
