"These," he says against my lips. "Also in the way."
"Then do something about it."
He hooks his fingers in the fabric and pulls, the sound of tearing elastic loud in the quiet office. I should protest. Those were expensive. But I'm already reaching for his belt instead, fumbling with the buckle until he takes over, making quick work of his pants.
"The desk can hold us?" he asks, glancing down at the polished surface skeptically.
"It's rated for two hundred pounds. You might be pushing it."
"Then we'll be careful." He lifts me slightly, positioning himself between my thighs. "Or not careful at all."
He enters me in one smooth thrust and I bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound that wants to escape. He's big and overwhelming and perfect, filling me completely.
"Not quiet, Little Manager," he rumbles in my ear. "Let me hear you."
"The walls are thin. People will know."
"Let them know." He pulls back and thrusts again, deeper this time. "Let them know you're mine."
The possessiveness should irritate me. Instead it makes heat pool low in my belly, makes me clench around him until he groans.
He sets a rhythm that's going to shake papers off the desk, that's going to leave marks on my hips where he's gripping me. I wrap my legs around his waist, my heels digging into his back, trying to pull him impossibly closer.
"Touch yourself," he commands, his voice rough. "I want to watch."
I slide my hand between us, finding the bundle of nerves that's already singing with sensation. He watches my face as I work myself, his eyes dark with hunger and something deeper.
"That's it," he encourages, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. "Take what you need from me."
The pleasure builds sharp and bright, spreading through my limbs like fire. I'm close, so close, and he knows it because he leans down to capture my mouth again, swallowing my moans as I come apart around him.
He follows moments later with a groan that vibrates through both of us, his grip on my hips tightening as he spills inside me. We stay locked together, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together in the aftermath.
"Strategic planning session," he finally says, his lips quirking. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Aggressive negotiations," I counter, my voice still shaky. "We're testing the new department protocols."
He laughs and pulls out carefully, reaching for the box of tissues on my desk to clean us both up. It's surprisingly tender, the way he takes care of me, gentle touches at odds with the roughness of moments before.
I slide off the desk on wobbly legs, trying to reassemble my clothing. My blouse is missing a button. My bra is somewhere on the floor. My underwear is destroyed. I look like exactly what I am, someone who just had sex on their desk at nine thirty in the morning.
"You're beautiful when you're disheveled," Thraka says, watching me with obvious appreciation. "All messy and undone."
"I look like a disaster."
"You look happy." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Relaxed. Like maybe you've figured out that perfection is overrated."
I want to argue but I catch my reflection in the darkened computer screen. He's right. Despite the mess, despite the chaos, I look lighter somehow. Less brittle.
"Maybe," I admit, reaching up to straighten his tie where it still hangs around my neck. "Maybe perfect is boring anyway."
ORLA
One year later, the office looks different.
The dress code relaxed six months ago after Thraka argued that ties were "warrior restraints designed to weaken the spirit." Now people wear jeans on Fridays. Some wear jeans every day. The world didn't end.
I'm wearing a blazer over a silk shell instead of a full suit. My heels are two inches instead of four. Small changes that would have horrified me a year ago.
