Immediately. Without hesitation. Her hands fist in the front of my jacket and pull, dragging me closer, and the force of it surprises me. She is not tentative. She is not uncertain. She is kissing me back with a hunger that mirrors mine and the realization that she has been waiting too, that this want is not one-sided, hits me like a physical blow.
I break the kiss. My forehead against hers. Both of us breathing hard, the sound of it filling the office.
"I'm yours," I say.
She makes a small, broken sound. Something between a gasp and a sob. Her hands tighten in my jacket.
I kiss her again.
The dam I've maintained for weeks, the precise, bounded restraint that kept me away from her, collapses. My hands angling her head. My tongue in her mouth, tasting her, claiming the space she's giving me. She pulls at my jacket and I shrug it off without breaking the kiss.
I lift her by the hips. She gasps against my mouth and her legs wrap around me instinctively and I set her on the edge of her desk. The laptop slides. A cup of pencils tips and scatters across the surface where she draws, beautiful, precise illustrations. I don't care. I pull her against me and grind forward and the sound she makes when she feels me, hard and straining against the seam of my jeans, pressed directly against the heat of herthrough her leggings, is the most devastating sound I have ever heard.
"Owen." My name in her mouth. Breathless. Ruined.
I kiss down her jaw. Her neck. The tendon that stands taut when she tilts her head back. I find the place where her pulse is hammering, rapid and visible, and I close my mouth over it and suck and she moans and her hips roll against me and I am losing the ability to think in complete sentences.
My hands find the hem of her sweater. I start to lift it and then I stop. I look at her. She's flushed, lips swollen, eyes dark and half-closed. I need to know.
She reads the question on my face. She doesn't answer it with words.
She reaches down and pulls the sweater off herself. One smooth motion. Drops it on the floor beside my jacket.
Decision made.
I take her bra off, and the sight of her on her desk with her chest heaving and scattered pencils around her is breathtaking.
I push her back. Flat against the desk surface. She goes willingly, her spine arching, and I bend over her and take her nipple into my mouth.
She cries out. I suck hard, flicking my tongue across the peak, and then I bite. Gentle enough not to hurt. Hard enough to make her gasp and fist her hands in my hair. I move to the other breast, pinching the first between my fingers, rolling the wet nipple while I suck the second, and her back arches off the desk and her hips are grinding against me in desperate, rhythmless circles.
"You have no idea," I say against her skin, my mouth still on her, "what you do to me."
She whimpers.
I bite down on her nipple again and she moans, loud, her head falling back against the desk. "Do you know how many times Iwalked out of this room because if I stayed one more minute I was going to do exactly this?"
"Owen, I need..."
I pull her off the desk. Spin her around. She gasps as I press her forward, belly flat against the wood, her palms landing on the surface with a slap. Her illustration tablet is inches from her face.
I lean over her. My mouth against her ear. My body covering hers, pressing her into her own desk with my weight.
"You're not in charge here," My voice stripped of every measured, considered cadence I've cultivated for thirty years. "I am."
She shudders. Her whole body. A tremor that starts at her shoulders and runs down her spine and I feel it everywhere she's pressed against me.
I bite the side of her neck. Not gently. She makes a sound that goes straight to my cock and I reach around her hips and drag her leggings down, and her underwear with them, pulling them to her knees in one rough motion.
The sight of her. Bare and bent over her desk, the grey afternoon light falling across her skin. I press my hand between her legs and find her soaked. Hot and slick against my fingers, coating them instantly.
"Is this for me, Maya?" I ask, my voice wrecked.
She doesn't answer. She's breathing hard, her fingers curled around the far edge of the desk, her forehead pressed against the wood.
I pull my hand back and bring it down on her ass. The sound cracks through the quiet office and she jolts, a moan punched out of her.
"Answer me."
