Something crashes outside the door—glass breaking, followed by laughter and a muffled apology. We freeze, and the sounds from the club rush back into our awareness.
“Shit,” Thorne mutters, glancing toward the door.
The sound of voices fades as they pass by the storage room door. Thorne’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. It’s so intense it’s like a physical touch.
“We should wait,” I say, though my body screams otherwise. “Go somewhere more private.”
“Look at me, Ivy,” he says, low and commanding. I meet his eyes and see the raw desire, and it steals my breath. “The door is locked, but if you tell me you want to leave this room right now, we will.”
This is reckless, impulsive. Like my mother. And with a Blackstone. It’s everything I’ve spent my life avoiding. But with Thorne looking at me like that, his body radiating heat inches from mine, rationality feels distant and irrelevant. Screw it. Consequences can wait. I need him.
“I want you,” I whisper. “Here. Now.”
His eyes flare wide for a heartbeat, then his gaze drops to my mouth, and his tongue wets his lower lip before he closes the distance between us. He claims my mouth with a possessiveness that makes me weak, his hands cupping my face as though I might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
“Turn around,” he says when we break for air, the command barely more than gravel and breath.
I comply, my palms flattening against the desk. The cool air of the storage room kisses my exposed skin as he slowly lifts the hem of my dress. This is real. This is happening. Every nerve ending in my body migrates south, anticipating his touch. The metal desk is cold beneath my hands, grounding me even as everything inside me feels weightless, suspended.
His sharp intake of breath tells me he’s discovered the delicate lace hooked to the garters I’m wearing. He leans against me, his erection pressing into my backside, his body folding over mine. “Did you plan on someone seeing this?” he rumbles against my ear.
Knowing I shouldn't but unable to resist winding him up more, I smirk. His pupils blow wide, nostrils flaring as his jaw clenches. He delivers a sharp slap to my backside. I moan and press into his large palm.
He kneads my flesh, gripping my ass. “Did you like that?”
I’m too turned on to be embarrassed and nod. “Open your legs wider. Hold on tight to the table,” he commands.
The slow, metallic whisper of his zipper being pulled down has my pulse quickening. He thrusts his erection between my legs, leaning over my back. “I’m not going to pull out this time. I want you to feel me dripping down your thighs when we leave this room and another man asks you to dance.”
My skin flushes hot at the dirty possessiveness in his words, and I arch, spreading my legs wider, a whimper escaping my throat.
“Look at me,” he demands.
I twist to look at him. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheek. “Okay?”
My chest tightens at the question, at the way his eyes search mine. My throat closes, and my heart stutters. I cover his hand with mine and press into him. “Okay.”
He wraps my hair around his fist and tugs, pulling a needy groan from me. He doesn’t remove my thong, but pushes it aside as he thrusts into me, filling and stretching me with pleasure. “Thorne,” I gasp.
“So fucking good,” he mutters. “You feel so fucking good.” He pulls almost all the way out before slamming back into me. Euphoria waves over me.
“Again. Harder,” I rasp.
He does, and his relentless pace is perfection. I’m so close, almost there. And then his hand skates around my waist and to the front of my panties. He circles my clit and I’m there. My moans become louder. His hand holding my hair releases me, and he covers my body with his. “Scream out my name. Let every man here know who you belong to.”
My heart squeezes. I’ve never belonged to anyone. And I’m only his temporarily.
But then he shifts his hips and hits a pleasure point I didn’t even know existed. I forget about everything but what this man does to my body. And I do scream his name.
His breathing is uneven. The desk beneath me drags along the floor, papers scattering to the ground. His whispered praises mix with my gasped responses. Then he stiffens and groans, thrusting into me, filling me with his climax.
For several long moments afterward, we stay connected, his forehead pressed against my shoulder blades, our breathing gradually slowing. Neither of us seems willing to break the spell.
He presses a gentle kiss to my spine. “I didn’t plan for this to happen here,” he admits. “I can’t seem to control myself around you.”
“I didn’t plan for any of this to happen,” I confess, still catching my breath. “And the feeling’s mutual.”
He helps me straighten my dress, his hands lingering on my skin. “No regrets?” His hands—the same ones that commanded my body moments ago with such certainty—hesitate at my waist, fingers flexing like he’s not sure if he should hold on or let go.
