"The parking garage was proper celebration," he protests, though he's already backing me toward the desk, his hands finding my hips with unerring accuracy. "Very proper. You made sounds that echoed off the concrete."
"That was the appetizer." I pull the tie free completely, the silk sliding through my fingers. "This is the main course."
I loop his tie around my own neck, knotting it loosely. His eyes go dark, that predatory focus that makes me feel like prey in the best possible way.
"You wear my colors," he rumbles, his voice dropping into that register that vibrates through my chest. "Like a claiming."
"Maybe it is." I hop up onto the desk, scattering carefully organized papers. A stapler hits the floor. I don't care about the stapler. "Maybe I'm claiming you right back."
He growls, actual growls, and steps between my legs, his hands sliding up my thighs beneath my skirt. His palms are rough, calloused from whatever he did before he showed up here and destroyed my perfectly ordered existence.
"The door is locked?" he asks, though he's already kissing my neck, his teeth scraping against sensitive skin.
"Locked. Blinds closed. Calendar blocked for the next two hours as a strategic planning session."
"Very strategic." He bites down gently on my collarbone, making me gasp. "What are we planning?"
"How to survive until lunch without anyone noticing we're both completely disheveled."
He laughs against my skin, the vibration traveling straight through me. His hands work at my blouse buttons, more careful this time than he was in the supply closet or the shed or any of the other places we've ended up tangled together.
"I like your buttons," he murmurs, focused on his task with the intensity he usually reserves for intimidating the sales team. "Small and stubborn. Like you."
"I'm not stubborn. I'm focused."
"You argued with me for forty-five minutes yesterday about the correct way to format a memo." He gets the last button free and pushes the fabric aside, his eyes traveling over the simple black bra I'm wearing underneath. "Very stubborn."
"You wanted to use all caps and three exclamation points. That's not professional communication, that's shouting."
"It gets attention." His thumb traces the edge of my bra, the touch light enough to make me shiver. "Like this gets my attention."
He leans down, pressing kisses along the curve of my breast, his breath hot through the thin fabric. My head falls back, my composure unraveling with each touch.
"Thraka." His name comes out breathless, desperate.
"Tell me what you want, Little Manager." He looks up at me, his eyes gleaming with something possessive and tender all at once. "Give me an instruction."
"Take it off."
He reaches around, unhooks my bra with surprising dexterity for someone who routinely breaks keyboards by typing too hard. The fabric falls away and he makes a sound low in his throat, something appreciative and hungry.
"Beautiful," he says simply, reverently. "Every sharp edge and soft curve."
Then his mouth is on me, hot and insistent, his tongue circling my nipple until I'm gripping his shoulders for support. He takes his time, lavishing attention on first one breast then the other, using his teeth just enough to make me gasp.
My hands find his hair, tangling in the wild strands. He's still wearing too many clothes. I tug at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders, then work at his shirt buttons with shaking fingers.
"Impatient," he murmurs against my skin.
"Efficient. There's a difference."
He straightens enough to let me strip his shirt off, revealing all that green muscle underneath. I run my hands over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath my palm.
"I love your sharp edges," he says suddenly, his voice serious. "The way you cut through problems. The way you organize chaos. The way you look at me like I'm a puzzle you need to solve."
"I love your brute force. The way you just... exist without apology. The way you make me forget about spreadsheets and protocols and what I'm supposed to be doing."
He captures my mouth in a kiss that tastes like coffee and possession. His hands slide up my thighs again, pushing my skirt higher, his fingers finding the edge of my underwear.
