“We can’t,” she says when I break the kiss to move to her neck.
“We are.”
“Someone will see?—”
“Then we find somewhere private.”
There’s a door at the end of the hallway. Some kind of office or storage room, I don’t care which. I pull her toward it, and she follows without resisting.
The room is small. A desk, some chairs, and filing cabinets. I lock the door behind us and turn back to her. She’s standing in the middle of the room, breathing hard, looking at me like she can’t decide if she wants to run or pull me closer.
I make the decision for her.
I cross the space and crowd her back against the desk until the wood presses into her hips. My hands find her face first, thumbs sliding along her jaw, fingers curling at the nape of her neck, and I kiss her like I’ve been starving for it.
My mouth slants hard over hers, and she opens instantly, tongue meeting mine with no hesitation, no softness, just raw, biting need. She tastes like champagne and anger and something that hasn’t changed at all.
Her nails rake up my neck and dig into my hair, pulling hard enough that my scalp stings, angling my head so she can deepen the kiss on her terms. I let her for a heartbeat, then take it back, pressing forward until her spine arches slightly over the desk edge.
She bites my lower lip, sharp and deliberate, and the sting shoots straight to my cock. A rough sound rumbles out of me, swallowed by her mouth, because Christ, I missed this fight in her.
My hands drop to her ass, palms spreading wide over the cool silk, fingers digging in as I lift her just enough to grind her against the front of my trousers.
She feels it immediately, the thick, aching length of me, and her breath catches against my tongue. Her hips roll forward in answer, dragging herself along that ridge until I’m throbbing behind the fabric.
I spin her suddenly, one arm banding across her waist to keep her steady, and bend her forward just enough that her palms slap onto the desk for balance. Her dress slides easily in my fists, and I bunch it higher, higher, until it gathers in rumpled foldsaround her waist and exposes the long line of her thighs, the delicate lace between them.
She arches back into me without prompting, pressing her ass firmly against my hips, and the heat of her through that thin barrier nearly undoes me.
I splay a hand across her upper back, guiding her chest down toward the polished wood, not forcing yet, just reminding her how easily I could. She resists for a second, muscles tensing under my palm, then yields with a shaky exhale that fogs the desk surface.
My other hand traces the edge of her panties, fingertips slipping beneath the lace to feel bare, warm skin and the faint dampness already gathering there. I drag the fabric aside and stroke her once, long and unhurried, from entrance to clit, gathering the slickness that’s started to coat her.
She pushes back into my fingers, greedy, demanding more, and when I circle her clit slowly, deliberately, her thighs tremble. A soft, frustrated sound escapes her throat because I stop too soon, pulling my hand away just as her hips start to chase it.
She twists her head enough to glare at me over her shoulder, eyes dark and blazing, and that look alone is enough to make me ache harder.
I pull my hand away, and she makes a low, impatient sound that scrapes along my nerves like a match strike. The air between us feels thick enough to taste, heavy with the scent of her skin and the faint trace of gardenias from whatever she sprayed on her throat hours ago.
My belt buckle clinks softly as I open it, the leather sliding free with a whisper. I don’t bother with anything more than shoving trousers and linen down just far enough.
My cock springs against my stomach, aching, the head already slick. Six years, and the sight of her bent forward, dress rucked high, thighs parted just enough to show the glisten of her, nearly buckles my knees.
I step in close, one palm spreading over the small of her back, holding her steady. The blunt crown nudges her entrance and she pushes back at once, impatient, trying to take me on her terms. I deny her the angle, gripping her hip to still her, and drive forward in a single, claiming stroke that buries me to the root.
The heat of her is staggering. Tight, wet, pulsing around me like she’s been waiting for this exact stretch all this time. A rough sound tears out of my chest and her spine bows sharply, fingers clawing at the desk for purchase. The wood creaks under her grip.
I start moving hard from the first thrust, hips snapping forward with no restraint, each impact forcing a soft gasp from her throat. The desk shifts an inch across the floor with every drive.
Her dress slips further up her back, silk bunching under my forearm as I lean over her, mouth finding the delicate skin just below her ear. I bite down, not gently, and she shudders around me.
She refuses to stay passive. Even bent forward she fights for rhythm, shoving back to meet me, inner muscles gripping deliberately each time I pull out. The challenge is there in everyroll of her hips, in the way she turns her head to catch my eye over her shoulder, lips parted, daring me to give more.
I pull out abruptly and she makes a sharp, frustrated sound. Before she can protest I spin her again, hands under her thighs to lift her onto the desk. Papers scatter, a pen clatters to the floor. She wraps her legs around my waist instantly, heels digging into the backs of my thighs, pulling me forward.
I sink back into her in one smooth glide, and we both exhale like we’ve been holding our breath for years. Face-to-face now, nothing between us but heat and glare. I brace one arm beside her head, the other sliding up to cradle her jaw, thumb pressing against her lower lip until she parts for me. Our eyes stay locked. No hiding.
Each thrust is deeper this way, slower than before, but heavier, grinding at the end so she feels every inch. Her breath stutters against my mouth. I keep my hand on her jaw, not letting her turn away, forcing her to take the weight of my stare while I take her body.
