Papers scatter to the floor. I don't care. Nothing matters except the feel of his body between my thighs, the way his hands grip my hips with bruising force, the heat of his mouth as it trails down my neck.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," he mutters in Russian, his accent thicker now, his control slipping. His fingers find the zipper at the back of my dress, and he pulls it down with agonizing slowness. "I've wanted this since the moment you walked into my office. Wanted to strip away this professional armor and see what's underneath."
The dress pools at my waist, and Roman's blue eyes darken as they sweep over my body. I'm wearing a simple black bra—nothing fancy, nothing designed to seduce—but the way he looks at me makes me feel like the most desirable woman alive. His gaze lingers on my breasts, and I watch his jaw tighten with restraint.
"Take it off," I whisper, surprised by the command in my own voice.
His eyes snap to mine, something predatory flickering in their depths. He raises an eyebrow in question.
I answer by reaching behind me and unhooking the bra myself, letting it fall away. Roman's sharp intake of breath is the only sound in the office for a heartbeat, and then his hands are on me, cupping my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples with maddening precision.
"Perfect," he murmurs, lowering his head to take one nipple into his mouth. The sensation shoots through me like electricity, and I arch into him with a moan I can't suppress. His tongue circles and teases while his hand works the other breast, and I'm drowning in sensation, in need, in the overwhelming reality of Roman Sokolov touching me like he owns me.
Maybe he does own me. The thought should terrify me, but right now, with his mouth on my skin and his hands mapping my body, I can't bring myself to care.
I tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine, and Roman pulls back just long enough to shrug out of his jacket and yank his shirt over his head. My breath catches at the sight of him. His broad shoulders and seriously defined chest. Abs that speak of disciplined strength. And the tattoos. God, the tattoos. They cover his torso in intricate detail, cathedral domes, stars, symbols I don't fully understand but recognize as significant. Prison ink. Bratva marks. Evidence of a life lived in violence and survival.
I should be afraid. Instead, I reach out and trace the edge of a cathedral dome over his heart, feeling his muscles tense beneath my touch.
"You're staring," he says, his voice rough.
"You're worth staring at."
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, or pleasure at my honesty. Then his hands are pushing my dress up my thighs, bunching the fabric at my waist, and his fingers hook into my panties. He pauses, giving me one last chance to stop this insanity.
I lift my hips in answer.
Roman pulls the panties down my legs with deliberate slowness, his blue eyes never leaving mine. When I'm bare before him, vulnerable and exposed on his desk, he steps back slightly, his gaze raking over my body with an intensity that makes me shiver.
"Spread your legs," he commands, his voice dropping to that low register that does things to my body I can't control.
I obey, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. Roman's hands slide up my inner thighs, his touch firm and possessive, and when his fingers finally reach my center, I'm already wet and aching for him.
"Fuck, Eva," he groans, his fingers exploring, teasing, finding exactly where I need him. "You're so ready for me."
I can't form words, can only gasp as he works me with skilled precision, his thumb circling my clit while his fingers slide inside. The pleasure builds with devastating speed, and I grip the edge of the desk, my head falling back as I surrender to the sensation.
"Look at me," Roman demands, and I force my eyes open to meet his. "I want to watch you come apart."
His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his fingers, push me over the edge. The orgasm crashes through me with shocking intensity, and I cry out, my body convulsing around his hand. Roman watches every second, his expression fierce with satisfaction, and when the waves finally subside, I'm trembling and breathless.
But he's not done with me.
Roman unbuckles his belt with quick, efficient movements, and I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he frees himself. He's impressive. Thick, and hard, and ready, and a fresh wave of desire floods through me despite the orgasm still humming in my veins.
He positions himself between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, and pauses. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "I want you."
Roman enters me in one smooth thrust, filling me completely, and we both groan at the sensation. He's big, stretching me, and for a moment I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel the overwhelming fullness of him inside me.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his forehead dropping to mine, his breath ragged. "You feel incredible."
Then he starts to move, and coherent thought becomes impossible. His thrusts are deep and controlled at first, each one deliberate, claiming, but as my body adjusts and I start meeting him thrust for thrust, his control begins to slip. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and I love it, love the evidence that I'm affecting him as much as he's affecting me.
"Harder," I gasp, and Roman's eyes flash with something dark and possessive.
"You want it harder?" His accent is thick now, his voice rough. "I'll give you harder."
