"Don't," she says.
I look up. "Don't what?"
"Look at me like you're about to change your mind."
"I'm not changing my mind." I hold her gaze, making sure she hears this. "I'm trying not to move too fast because you look incredible and I'm not eighteen years old anymore."
I reach around her, unclip her bra, and her breasts fall free. Full, heavy, perfect, and I'm going to lose my goddamn mind, and then her jeans are next, button, zip, pushed down her hips along with everything else until she can step out of them.
I turn her around, hands on her waist, because I have to see it. Have to.
Her ass is—
Holy fuck.
Round and full and completely disproportionate to everything the universe has any right to allow, and I'm gripping it before Iconsciously decide to, both hands, fingers digging into soft warm skin until I can feel the marks I'm leaving, and I don't stop until she makes a sharp sound of pleasure.
I drop.
I drop to my knees behind her, because I'm apparently willing to spend the rest of my life on the floor of this break room, and I press my mouth to her right cheek first. Then her left. Open-mouthed, unhurried, like I have nowhere else to be.
"Havoc—" Her voice has gone unsteady. "Please—"
She throws her ass back against my face and then bends forward until her forearms hit the desk surface, arching her back, tilting herself toward me in a way that is absolutely, certifiably insane, and I bite her ass cheek hard enough to make her yelp.
"You're going to kill me," I tell her.
"Fuck me," she says into the desk. "Please. Please."
I stand, grab my cock, and with my other hand take hold of her panties.
I stop.
Because I need a moment for this too.
Her underwear is soaked through. Not damp, not slightly wet—soaked. The fabric is dark with it, and when I pull it down and away, the evidence of exactly how much she wants this is visible, coating her inner thighs, glistening, and the sight of it does something to my brain chemistry that I'm certain is irreversible.
Her pussy is pink and pretty and absolutely drenched, and I stroke myself twice, three times, and then line up and press forward.
She gasps.
I place both hands on her hips and push. When I'm fully seated inside her I go completely still, and I take a long, slow breath through my nose, because I need it.
Because she's perfect.
She's warm and tight and her body grips mine like we were built for this exact configuration, and she's throbbing around me. I can feel her pulse in the most intimate way possible, and for a moment I just stay there and let myself feel it. Let myself have this.
And then Ruby Lane throws her ass back, finds my cock halfway, and looks at me over her shoulder with dark desperate eyes.
"Harder," she says. "Please, Jake. Harder."
I flex my arms. Bend my knees. And I give her what she asked for.
The desk lurches forward on the first thrust. On the second it scrapes against the floor. By the third we've both stopped caring about the noise, about the scraping desk, about the slap of skin, about the sounds coming out of both of us that would make absolutely no one in this casino building question what's happening in this room.
I don't care. This is our moment. Let them hear.
I set a pace that's merciless and I don't apologize for it because she's matching every single thrust, throwing herself back to meet me, her ass connecting with my hips with a sound that fills the room, her spine arching deeper, her hands white-knuckled on the desk edge.
