The hooks are even more complicated than buttons but I manage through sheer determination.
The fabric loosens and falls away.
"Oh my gods," I breathe.
She's perfect. Soft and curving and entirely different from anything in my previous experience. I want to touch everything at once, taste every inch, figure out exactly what makes her fall apart.
"Stop staring," she repeats, but her voice lacks conviction.
"Never." I cup one breast, testing the weight. Soft. Warm. The peak tightens against my palm and she shivers.
Responsive.
I brush my thumb deliberately across the tightened peak, applying just enough pressure to make her nerve endings sing, and she gasps sharply, her head falling back to expose the elegant line of her throat.
There. That exact sound, that involuntary catch of breath, that wordless surrender. The precise reaction I've been craving to hear again, to catalogue and memorize and figure out how to recreate on demand.
I do it again, watching her face. Learning. Cataloging. She bites her lip to stay quiet but small whimpers escape anyway.
Not enough.
I lower my head and seal my mouth over her breast.
She cries out, immediately clapping a hand over her mouth. Her other hand fists in my hair, holding me there. Not pulling away. Pulling closer.
I lavish attention on sensitive flesh, alternating between gentle and rough. Sucking hard enough to mark then soothing with my tongue. Testing boundaries.
Every single time she tries to muffle herself, every time she bites down on those soft lips or presses her hand over her mouth to contain the sounds, I deliberately do something new—something different—something specifically designed to shatter that careful control and make silence absolutely impossible.
"The office," she gasps out when I bite down gently on the tender flesh, just enough pressure to send sparks through her nervous system. Her fingers tighten convulsively in my hair. "People will—people will hear. They'll know exactly what we're doing."
"Let them," I growl against her skin, the vibration making her shudder.
"Thraka—" she starts, probably about to launch into some perfectly logical argument about professional boundaries and workplace protocols and reputation management.
I switch to her other breast, giving it equal attention. She's writhing now, hips shifting against mine in a rhythm that's driving me toward the edge of control.
Need her closer. Need her now.
My hand slides up her thigh, pushing her skirt higher. Skin like silk under my rough palm. I reach the edge of her undergarment and pause.
"Yes?" I check, even though stopping now might actually kill me.
"Yes. God, yes. Please."
I slide my hand higher, cupping her through thin fabric that's damp with arousal.
She chokes on a moan.
Heat. Wet heat soaking through the barrier between my hand and where I want to touch her. I press my palm against her and she bucks, grinding down with desperate friction.
"Off," she demands, tugging at the waistband. "Get these off."
I hook my fingers in the elastic and pull down. She lifts her hips to help, legs still wrapped around me. The fabric catches on her shoes and she kicks them off impatiently.
Bare now except for the skirt bunched around her waist, pushed up high enough to give me access but still twisted around her middle like evidence of our urgency.
I slide one finger through slick folds, parting them slowly, exploring, and we both groan at the contact. The sound tears from my chest like a growl, vibrating against where my mouth is pressed to her throat.
