She stirs, weakly, like she thinks she can shift away. I growl low in her ear. “Don’t even try.”
“I can’t—” Her voice is hoarse, trembling. “Dean… I can’t breathe.”
“You’re breathing just fine,” I rasp, pressing my chest harder into her back, forcing her to take the weight of me. “I can feel every fucking inhale.”
A broken laugh escapes her, sharp and unsteady, like she doesn’t know if she should laugh or cry. I smirk against her damp skin, because either way it’s mine.
Finally, I drag out of her slow, obscene, her body clenching down like it’s begging me to stay. I catch the sound she makes, half-plea, half-protest, and it stabs me right in the gut.
Her thighs tremble when I turn her around, sliding her up onto the table. She gasps, eyes fluttering open, lashes wet, lips swollen. Christ, she looks like sin itself.
I frame her face in my hands, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth where she’s bitten herself raw. “Look at you,” I murmur, rough but reverent. “Fucked out on my table. Kate’s not even cold out the door, and I’ve ruined her best friend.”
Her gaze flickers—guilt, heat, defiance, all colliding at once.
I lean in close, forehead pressing to hers, my breath still uneven. “Do you feel guilty, baby girl?” I whisper, dragging the words out like a blade. “Do you feel filthy? Because you should. You should hate me for taking you here, like this.”
Her lips part, shaking, but she doesn’t answer.
And that silence—that delicious, damning silence—tells me everything.
I cup her jaw tighter, making sure she can’t look away. “The worst part is,” I confess, voice low, “I don’t regret a fucking thing.”
Working Under My Boss
The office is silent.
Not silent, exactly—his pen scratches across a page, the low hum of the AC breathes through the vents, the phone buzzes once before he kills the sound with a sharp flick of his thumb but quiet in the way a predator makes the woods quiet. Like every noise is waiting for him to move first.
I keep my eyes glued to the screen in front of me, pretending that the numbers and emails mean anything, pretending that my heart isn’t beating hard enough to make my blouse shift against my chest. It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.
Because what happened in his dining room wasn’t supposed to follow us here. This is supposed to be business. Files and schedules and coffee runs. Not… not the ghost of his hands bruising my hips every time I shift in this stupid office chair.
I hear him sigh. It’s low, deliberate. Heavy enough to drag my gaze up before I can stop myself.
Dean leans back in his chair, suit jacket stretched across his broad shoulders, the knot of his tie loose enough to expose the sharp cut of his throat. His eyes aren’t on the contracts spread out in front of him. They’re on me.
I shift in my seat, heat rising uninvited. “Do you need something?” My voice is thinner than I’d like, all brittle edges.
The corner of his mouth curves like I’ve just told him a secret I didn’t mean to. He drums his fingers against the desk, slow and steady, like he’s marking time.
“You’ve been typing the same sentence for five minutes.”
My stomach drops. I glance at the screen—he’s right. The same words, copied and pasted in panic, like my body betrayed me the second he looked at me.
“I was… proofreading.” Weak. I hate how weak it sounds.
His smirk sharpens, a predator’s smile hidden in a businessman’s mouth. “Sure you were, Brooklyn.”
The way he says my name makes me cross my legs under the desk, heat spiking where it shouldn’t.
I drop my gaze again, nails digging crescents into my palm. I swore I wouldn’t make another man my universe. I swore I wouldn’t lose myself.
So why do I already feel like I orbit him?
The clock ticks loudly enough to make me want to smash it. Each second stretches like he’s pulling the thread tighter, like he knows I’m fraying with every glance he pretends not to give me.
I scroll. I type. I backspace.
