He pulls almost completely out, then slams back in with enough force to make me cry out. The desk shakes beneath us, papers and pens clattering to the floor, but neither of us cares. Roman sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving deeper, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, taking everything he's giving me.
The pleasure builds again, faster this time, coiling tight in my core. Roman's hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit, and the dual sensation of him inside me and his fingers working me pushes me toward another edge.
"Come for me again," he commands, his voice strained.
His words, his touch, the relentless rhythm of his body—it's too much. I shatter around him, my inner walls clenching, and Roman groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as my orgasm triggers his own. He buries himself deep one final time, and I feel him pulse inside me, his body shuddering with release.
We stay frozen like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, our bodies still joined. Roman's forehead rests against mine, his hands gentling on my hips, and I can feel his heart pounding against my chest.
Slowly, reality begins to seep back in. The office. The desk. The scattered papers. The fact that I just had sex with my boss. My dangerous, possibly criminal boss. In his office.
Roman pulls back slightly, his blue eyes searching my face, and I see my own shock reflected in his expression. What the hell did we just do?
12
ROMAN
Ihaven't slept.
The city lights have given way to dawn, and I'm still standing at my bedroom window, vodka glass in hand, replaying every fucking moment with Eva Markova. The way she felt beneath me. The sounds she made. The trust in her brown eyes despite the fear. The way her body responded to mine like we were made to fit together.
I crossed a line I swore I wouldn't cross.
She's my employee. Twenty-four to my forty-one. Too young, too innocent for the darkness that defines my world. But knowing that doesn't change the fact that I want her again. Right now. Always.
Blyat.
I drain the vodka and set the glass down harder than necessary. This obsession is dangerous. Lev was right to warn me, and I was a fool to ignore him. Eva Markova has gotten under my skin,past every defense I've built, and I don't know how to make it stop.
I don't know if I want it to stop.
By the time I arrive at the office, I've convinced myself she won't show up. She'll call in sick, or simply disappear, too smart to come back after what happened between us. But when the elevator doors open onto the forty-second floor, Eva is already at her desk.
My breath catches.
She's wearing a tailored gray dress that hugs her curves in ways that make my hands itch to touch her again. Her blonde hair is pulled back in that sleek bun I destroyed yesterday, every strand perfectly in place. She looks up when I enter, and for a heartbeat, our eyes meet. I see the memory of yesterday flash across her face before she masks it with professional composure.
"Good morning, Mr. Sokolov." Her voice is steady, neutral, revealing nothing.
"Miss Markova."
I force myself to walk past her office toward mine, acutely aware of her presence through the glass wall. She returns her attention to her computer screen, her fingers moving across the keyboard with practiced efficiency. Like nothing happened. Like I didn't have her bent over my desk, gasping my name, coming apart in my arms.
The memory makes my cock harden, and I adjust myself as I settle behind my desk. This is going to be a long fucking day.
Eva brings me coffee exactly on time, her movements precise as she sets the cup on my desk. She's careful not to let our fingerstouch, and the deliberate distance makes something twist in my chest. I watch her turn to leave, my gaze dropping to the sway of her hips, the curve of her ass beneath that gray dress. I remember gripping those hips, feeling her body move against mine, and heat floods my veins.
"Eva."
She stops at the door, her spine straightening. "Yes, Mr. Sokolov?"
"Close the door."
I see her hesitation, the slight tremor in her hand as she reaches for the handle. But she obeys, closing us in together, and the click of the lock feels impossibly loud in the silence.
"We need to talk about yesterday."
"There's nothing to talk about." Her voice is steady, but I see the way her pulse flutters at her throat. "It was a mistake. It won't happen again."
