She stayed on top, trembling. My dick still buried inside her. Her lips brushed mine. We were both slick, messy, ruined.
And I loved every fucking second of it.
She slid off me slow, thighs trembling as she adjusted her skirt, then leaned in with one last kiss—slick and smug and satisfied.
“You okay to drive?” she asked, smoothing her top like she hadn’t just wrecked me in broad daylight.
I couldn’t even answer. Just grunted and let my head fall back against the seat.
By the time I got her back to her car, we were both a mess of swollen lips and satisfied silence. She winked when she stepped out. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
Because Ifelther. Still inside me. Still wrapped around every nerve.
I sat there another five minutes, trying to collect myself. Buttoned my shirt halfway. Ran a hand down my face. Failed.
I was still leaking, sore, and lightheaded from the kind of orgasm that rewired your damn soul. And I was late.
When I finally walked through the office doors, Maliah looked up from the front desk. Then she lookedthroughme. Her expression turned so icy I could feel the frost off her lashes.
“Afternoon,” I muttered.
She didn’t respond.
Just tapped her pen on the counter like she had a hundred other things she’d rather be doing than acknowledging me.
I didn’t blame her.
Iknewshe had a thing. She’d been throwing me soft lobs of flirtation for months, and I kept knocking ‘em down with politesmiles. I never crossed a line. But I also didn’t shut it down hard enough. Not really.
And now… this? She knew. Everybody did.
Especially after the way Sanaa walked in here lookin’ like a damn temptation and left with me like she’d already claimed the prize.
Maliah’s glare tracked me all the way down the hall, and I wondered if I’d find a transfer request on my desk by the end of the week. Wouldn’t be shocked. Wouldn’t fight it either.
Marquez probably saw us too. His timing was always slick like that.
And sure enough, not ten minutes after I sat down—still buttoning my damn shirt—he strolled in like he owned the place.
“You took lunch?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.
I shrugged and kept whistling low under my breath. My legs still felt loose. My dick was sore. My heart though… that muthafucka was wide open.
“I eat when I’m hungry.”
He smirked. “You were gone for well over an hour.”
I looked up. “I was really hungry.”
12
It had been a few days since that afternoon in his truck—since the taste of him sank too deep into my skin to wash away. Since I’d kissed him with my whole mouth, my whole damn self, and pressed every inch of my body into the way he held me. Since we’d climbed out of that moment dazed and quiet, thenclimbed back into each other through every conversation that followed.
We were talking more now.
About nothing and everything. Sometimes at midnight. Sometimes at noon. It wasn’t constant, but it was steady. Measured. Like we both knew that whatever we were building could catch flame if we rushed it.
Still, I wanted to name it. To take it out of the shadows. To stop pretending this was casual when it had already started rearranging the furniture of my life.
