And then I kiss her. Not soft, slow, or careful. But rough, demanding, claiming.
I crush my mouth to hers, all the tension I’ve been choking on for weeks ripping loose all at once. She moans into me, and the sound ruins whatever restraint I thought I still had.
Her fingers claw into my hair, my hands grip her hips, hauling her tighter against me. Her breath stutters into my mouth as she grinds down on my growing hardness. Every part of me that remembers her sparks to life—her taste, her heat, the way she fell apart under me at the wedding.
“You want to see complicated?” I murmur against her lips. “This is complicated.”
She shakes her head, breath hot against my mouth. “No. This is simple.” And then she kisses me back, hungry, deep, desperate.
I snap, grabbing her by the waist, and standing to lift her onto the desk so fast papers scatter everywhere—blueprints, invoices, spreadsheets flying like confetti.
She pulls in a sharp breath as her back hits the wood. “Cole—“
I step in between her knees, spread her open, and pull her to the edge. “Tell me you don’t want this,” I say, voice low, rough. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
Her eyes burn into mine, dark, certain, blazing. “Don’t you dare stop.”
I drag my hand up the inside of her thigh, slow and measured, watching her pupils grow wide as my fingers slide under her skirt. She’s already wet. Fuck.
My jaw clenches as my fingers slip against her heat. Her head drops back, a soft moan spilling out that hits me like a punch to the gut.
I whisper against her throat, “You’re playing with fire.”
“Good,” she gasps. “Burn me.”
I do. I push her skirt up to her hips, drag her panties aside, and slide two fingers into her, deep, slow, filthy. Her body clenches hot and tight around me. She cries out, hands gripping the edge of the desk.
“Cole—God—“
“Look at me,” I growl.
She lifts her head, eyes glazed, lips parted.
“Say my name,” I growl, thrusting my fingers deeper.
“Cole.”
“Louder.”
“Cole—Cole—“
It tears out of her like a prayer. I work her harder, faster, my thumb circling her clit in tight, unhurried strokes until she trembles, thighs shaking around my wrist.
Her breath breaks. “Please—don’t stop—“
“I’m not stopping,” I say, leaning over her. “Not this time.”
She comes hard, crashing around my fingers with a choked cry, her whole body arching off the desk. I watch every second of it—every tremor, gasp, and desperate clutch of her hands around mine.
When she collapses back against the desk, breathless and wrecked, I pull my hand away and trail my slick fingers up her stomach, her ribs, her throat, until I grip her jaw gently.
“You think I don’t want this?” I whisper. “You think I’m scared of you?”
Her eyes flutter open, heavy and dark. “Then prove it.”
And so I do. I unzip my jeans, yank them just low enough, and drag her hips to me. Her breath catches as the head of my cock brushes against her soaked entrance.
I hold her gaze. “This is your last chance to tell me no.”
