"Catastrophic error, brain missing," she whispered.
"We can rebuild it," I said, stepping closer, moving between her open legs again. "But first..."
I reached for my belt buckle. My hands were shaking, just a fraction. Analysis was over. The theory had been proven. Now it was time for the practical application.
"First," I said, undoing the leather strap. "I need to take care of something."
Rowan looked at my hands, then up at my face. Her eyes cleared, the hazel darkening with renewed interest. She reached out, her ink-stained fingers brushing the front of my trousers.
"I want to help," she murmured, gripping my zipper.
I groaned, a sound torn from the back of my throat, and lifted her off the desk. I spun her around and walked us behind the desk where I sat down in the heavy leather chair, letting her choose what to do next.
Her fingers were usually so precise. Over the last few days I’d watched them navigate complex legal documents and execute perfect espresso pulls, but at that moment, they fumbled against the zipper of my trousers. The tremor in her hands wasn't fear anymore; it was urgency.
The sight of Rowan Quill, the woman who weaponized paperwork, reduced to frantic, tactile need was a victory I hadn’t known I was fighting for until that exact moment.
"Allow me," I choked out, my hands covering hers to stop the erratic tugging.
I dealt with the zipper in a sharp, efficient movement. The release of pressure was immediate, but it was replaced by a different, maddening kind of tension as I freed myself into the cool air of the study.
Rowan didn’t hesitate. She didn’t shy away. She looked down at what she’d uncovered with the same intense, dilated scrutiny she applied to a contract loophole, assessing the dimensions, calculating the fit. Then she adjusted her hips, the black skirt bunching around her waist, and sank down.
I hissed a breath through my teeth, my head falling back against the leather headrest.
The fit was tight. Impossibly so. She encased me in wet, searing heat that felt like it was fusing our nervous systems together. She took me slowly, inch by agonizing inch, her hands braced on my shoulders, her nails digging into the hidden seams of my shirt.
When she finally bottomed out, sitting flush against my lap, the air left the room. We paused there, suspended in a moment of total, paralytic alignment. I gripped her hips, my thumbs digging into the soft skin just above the bone, keeping her anchored.
"You fit," I groaned, opening my eyes to look at her. "Perfectly."
She gasped, rolling her hips experimentally. The friction nearly ended me on the spot. It was a direct current to the base of my spine.
I gritted my teeth, forcing my brain to stay online, forcing the strategist to override the animal. If I let go now, it would be over in seconds, and that was something I couldn't abide.
I snapped my hips upward.
Rowan cried out, her head falling forward onto my shoulder. I buried my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the complex, heady mix of peppermint, sex, and the fading cedar of Mateo. I bit down lightly on the tendon there, marking her, layering my own claim over the others. Not a true claim, but enough to make her body react of its own accord and let me know that she liked it.
She began to move, crying out softly with each downward slide. It wasn't the rhythmic, steady pace of a marathon runner; it was the frantic, jagged tempo of a sprinter. Her breasts bounced in my face and I longed to suck on one of her pert nipples, but doing so would end everything entirely too quickly.
I let her set the pace for exactly thirty seconds before I took executive control.
"Too fast," I growled, clamping my hands on her hips and forcing her to a halt.
"Stephen!" She whined, a sound of pure frustration, trying to grind against me. "Let me?—"
"No. You're rushing this." I held her still, despite the tremors running through her thighs. I looked up at her, forcing her to meet my gaze. Her eyes were glazed, blown wide, swimming in lust. "Look at me, Rowan."
She focused on me, struggling. "I'm looking."
"Slow down. Feel the friction. Feel me. Don't just run to the finish line."
I lifted her hips an inch, then pulled her back down. Slow. Deliberate. A grinding drag that maximized contact.
Her breath hitched, turning into a broken sob. "That... god, that feels..."
"Better," I finished for her. "Efficiency isn't about speed, Rowan. It's about impact."
