I established a new rhythm. Deep, rolling thrusts that aimed for maximum internal displacement. I watched her face as I worked inside her. I watched the way her brow furrowed, the way she bit her lip until it turned white, the way the mask of the unflappable manager slipped and shattered, revealing the raw, wanting woman underneath.
It was the most honest data I had ever collected.
She was tightening around me, her internal muscles clamping down in rhythmic spasms that mirrored my own escalating heart rate. I moved my hand between us, finding the slick heat of her clit again.
"Stephen," she warned, her voice tight, vibrating with tension. "If you touch me there while you're... I can't..."
"Come for me, Rowan," I whispered. "Feel my cock inside you, stretching you, while I play with that pretty pussy. Let go for me."
I circled her with my thumb.
She disintegrated.
It was immediate and violent. She screamed my name, her body bowing backward, her fingernails scoring down the front of my shirt. Her inner walls spasmed around my cock, milking me with a terrifying, rhythmic strength that stripped away the last of my control.
I groaned, a guttural sound torn from the bottom of my lungs, and drove into her one last time, deep and hard. I poured myself into her, my own release hitting me and wiping my mind completely clean.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the harsh, ragged tearing of our breath and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Rowan slumped against me, her forehead resting on my damp collarbone. Her heart was beating against my chest like a trapped bird. I wrapped my arms around her, one hand stroking the length of her spine, the other resting possessively on her hip.
My brain slowly began to reboot. Systems coming back online. Sensory input stabilizing.
The smell of sex was heavy in the air, mixing with the scent of old paper and ink. It was a perfect, chaotic perfume.
"Rowan? Everything okay?" I murmured into her hair, kissing the top of her head.
Rowan let out a long, shaky breath, her breath hot against my neck through the fabric of the shirt I hadn't even bothered to take off.
"More than okay," she mumbled. "So much more."
"Glad to hear it."
She lifted her head slowly. Her hair was a wild halo of static and curls. Her lips were swollen, red and bitten. There was a smudge of ink on her collarbone that I hadn't put there, a remnant of her work.
She looked at me, her hazel eyes clearing, the sharp intelligence slowly flickering back to life behind the haze of dopamine.
"You talk too much during sex," she accused, though there was no heat in it. She traced the line of my jaw with a trembling finger.
"I prefer 'verbal guidance,'" I corrected. "And you seemed to respond well to the directives."
A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You're insufferable."
"I'm thorough."
She glanced down at the desk, at the scattered pages of the Anchor Protocol that had survived our upheaval. One page wascrinkled under her knee. Another was perilously close to the edge.
"We wrinkled the draft," she noted, reaching out to smooth a piece of paper. The action was purely reflexive, the manager trying to tidy the workspace even while still straddling a partner.
I caught her hand, tangling our fingers together.
"It adds character," I said. "Proof of concept. The protocol withstood the pressure test."
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against my chest. She looked down at where we were joined, then back up at me, a sudden flicker of vulnerability crossing her face.
"So," she whispered. "This... complicates everything."
"It was already complicated," I said, shifting slightly in the chair, feeling the velvet slide of her skin against mine. "This just clarifies where I stand."
