“Shut up and fuck me, lawyer.”
So I did.
I shouldn’t have done it. I knew that. I knew it before I’d even touched her, before I’d buried myself inside her, before I felt her body tighten around mine, dragging me under. But knowing it and stopping it were two different things.
The second I pushed into her, the second I heard that sharp, wrecked gasp fall from her lips, the second she clenched around me like she’d been waiting for this as badly as I had, I knew there was no stopping it.
Her body was soft against mine, her nails biting into my arms like she needed something to hold onto—like I was the only thing keeping her tethered to this moment. Maybe I was. Maybe that was why she was here, standing in my office at midnight, letting me take her apart over my desk.
Maybe that was why I was letting her.
I gritted my teeth, my grip bruising her waist as I pulled her hips back, forcing her to take every inch. Forcing her to feel me everywhere.
I should’ve hated the way she let me have her like this. The way she bent so easily for me. The way she didn’t fight it—didn’t fight me. I should’ve hated how easy she made it to forget. Forget that she was reckless. Forget that she was self-destructive. Forget that she wasn’t mine to fix.
But I didn’t.
This, I couldn’t hate.
When she was here, like this, she wasn’t pushing. She wasn’t running. She wasn’t drowning herself in something else, numbing herself from everything that made her feel.
She was feeling this.
Feeling me.
Her nails scratched against the wood of the desk, and her body went tense for half a second before she gave in. Before she let herself take it.
And fuck, she took it so well.
I pressed a hand between her shoulder blades, keeping her in place as I drove into her—slow at first, teasing, dragging it out just to hear the small, desperate sounds she made when I didn’t give her enough.
She hated when I controlled the pace.
Hated when I made her wait.
A choked moan left her lips, and I felt it—how her body clenched, how her thighs trembled, how she struggled to keep herself upright.
I let her struggle.
I wanted her to.
Because for all her fighting, all her attitude, all her damn resistance, she never resisted this. Never resisted me.
I dragged a hand between her legs and found the place that made her shudder, that made her knees buckle. She tried to move away, tried to control it, but I didn’t let her. I held her exactly where I wanted her.
“Marco—”
Her voice cracked on my name, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk so tightly her knuckles turned white.
And when she broke—when her body tensed and trembled and clenched around me so tightly I almost lost it—I finally let myself go.
A groan ripped from my chest as I buried myself deep, my jaw going tight, fingers flexing against her skin as I spilled inside her, filling her up, marking her from the inside out.
For a long second, neither of us moved.
Her body was slumped forward, her breath ragged, forehead resting against the desk as if she couldn’t hold herself up. I stayed right where I was, still inside her, still gripping her hips, still catching my breath as if she hadn’t just wrecked me.
As if I hadn’t just wrecked myself.
