"You like that?" His voice was rough. "Tell me."
"Yes. God, yes. Don't stop."
He worked his thumb in rhythm with his thrusts. The dual penetration was overwhelming—too much and not enough and exactly what I needed. Every nerve ending screamed. My whole body was on fire.
"Come for me," he commanded. "Let me feel it."
The orgasm slammed through me. I screamed his name—couldn't help it, couldn't stop it—my body clenching around him, the intensity multiplied by his thumb still moving. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me, leaving me shaking and gasping.
He groaned, his rhythm faltering. "Ruby, I'm—"
"Come," I managed. "Come inside me. I want to feel it."
He thrust hard one last time and I felt him pulsing inside me, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his own hoarse cry echoing mine.
We stayed frozen like that. Both trembling, covered in sweat, breathing like we'd just run a marathon.
Then he carefully withdrew—both from inside me and his thumb—and we collapsed onto the rug in a tangled heap.
I couldn't move. Could barely think. Every muscle felt like jelly. The rug was soft beneath my cheek, the fire warm on my skin.
That was intense. My body's never responded like that. What the hell is happening to me?
Oh god. Oh god, what did I do?
That wasn't supposed to happen. The orgasms, yes. The physical response, fine. But the intensity. The way my body had responded to him like we were made to fit together.
I couldn't want him like this. He's the reason I lost everything.
"That was—" he started, his voice rough.
Panic. Run. Shut it down before he sees—
"That was fun," I said quickly, forcing brightness into my tone. I pushed away from him, needing space, needing air, needing to get away from the hurt I could already see forming in his eyes. "I'm starving. Should we grab lunch?"
He pulled back to look at me. I watched the exact moment my words landed. His expression shuttered. His jaw went tight. The warmth in his eyes iced over.
"Fun," he repeated flatly.
"Yeah." I grabbed my clothes, started pulling them on with shaking hands. "I mean, wasn't it?"
He rolled off the rug, reached for his joggers without a word. The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.
I fled to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
My reflection stared back at me. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, beard burn visible on my neck and breasts, hair a complete disaster. I looked thoroughly fucked.
Because it hadn't been fun. It had been devastating.
I can't fall for him. He's the reason I lost everything.
Except... was he?
A memory flashed. His office. Through the doorway, I'd glimpsed file cabinets, a desk covered in papers.
Evidence. I needed evidence to prove he was the villain. Proof that would let me kill these feelings before they destroyed me.
I splashed water on my face, pulled my clothes back on, and waited for my breathing to steady.
