"So wet," I rumble against her skin. Her pulse hammers under my lips. "This all for me, Little Manager?"
The evidence of her arousal coats my finger, hot and slick, and I have to pause for a moment just to process the reality of it, that I've reduced my perfectly controlled, perpetually composed Orla to this state of desperate need.
"Don't—" She breaks off when I find a particularly sensitive spot. "Don't be smug."
"Orla." I circle that spot slowly. "I'm going to be insufferably smug about this for weeks."
She would probably have a sharp response except I push one finger inside and her back arches, words dissolving into incoherent sounds.
Tight. Hot. Perfect.
I add a second finger, watching her face. She's flushed from her cheeks down to her chest, lips parted, eyes half-closed. Gorgeous in her abandon.
No corporate mask now. No professional distance. Just pleasure and need and the way she clenches around my fingers when I curl them just right.
"There," she gasps out, her voice breaking on the word, fingers clutching desperately at my shoulders. "Right, oh god, right there. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
The desperation in her tone, the raw need stripped of all her usual composure, sends a surge of satisfaction through me that's almost primitive. I keep my rhythm steady, exactly where she needs it, watching every microexpression that flickers across her face, the way her eyebrows draw together in concentration, the slight parting of her lips as her breathing becomes more erratic, the flush spreading down her neck.
I wouldn't dream of stopping. Couldn't stop now even if the entire office burst through the door. She's right there, trembling on the precipice, and I'm going to push her over it.
I work her steadily, building rhythm. My thumb finds the bundle of nerves above where my fingers are buried and she keens, high and desperate.
"Too loud," I murmur, sealing my mouth over hers to swallow the sounds she can't contain.
She bites my lip in retaliation but kisses me back with bruising intensity. Her hips rock against my hand, chasing friction. Getting close.
I can feel it in the way she tightens, the way her breathing gets ragged, the way her nails dig into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
Want to see her fall apart. Want to watch what she looks like when control splinters completely.
I break the kiss to watch her face, maintaining the steady rhythm that's driving her toward the edge.
"Look at me," I order.
Her eyes flutter open reluctantly, glazed and unfocused with pleasure but managing to lock onto mine. Even through the haze, I can see the struggle, her desperate need to maintain some shred of control warring with the unstoppable tide building inside her.
"That's it," I encourage, voice low and steady. "Good. Keep those eyes on me." I increase both pressure and speed, working her with deliberate precision, my thumb circling that sensitive bundle of nerves while my fingers stroke deep. "Let go, Orla. Stop fighting it. I've got you."
She shakes her head frantically, even now trying to resist the inevitable. "Can't," she gasps out between ragged breaths. "Too loud. I'll be?—"
I lean in close, as my breath fans hot against the shell of her ear, my mouth brushing the sensitive skin there. My voice drops to a rumbling whisper. "Then bite me."
Her teeth sink into my shoulder with savage intensity the precise moment she comes apart, her whole body going rigid before dissolving into shuddering waves of release.
The pain-pleasure combination nearly undoes me. She shudders and clenches around my fingers, muffling her cries against my skin. I work her through it, drawing out every aftershock until she finally goes limp.
Trembling.
Satisfied.
Mine.
I withdraw carefully and she whimpers at the loss. Her forehead drops to my shoulder, breathing hard.
"That was..." She trails off.
"A successful reward?"
