"You get off on this, don't you?" His voice was rough. "Controlling me. Having power over what I write, what I publish, what I become."
"Yes." No point lying about it. "I get off on control. On knowing I can make you do exactly what I want. On watching you submit even while you hate me for it."
"I do hate you." But his pupils were blown wide and his breathing had changed.
"I know." My thumb brushed over his lower lip. "But you want me anyway. Don't you?"
I watched him struggle with the truth. Watched defiance war with desire. Watched the moment he stopped fighting it.
"Yes," he breathed. "I hate that I want you. Hate that every time you summon me I come running. Hate that I think about you when I shouldn't. But yes. I want you."
The admission broke something in me. The careful control I'd maintained for months. The facade I'd worn like armor.
"Then stop fighting it," I said.
"I can't—"
I kissed him before he could finish the protest.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't careful. It was months of tension condensed into a single point of contact. He made a sound against my mouth—surprise or protest or surrender, I couldn't tell. His hands came up to my chest and I thought he'd push me away.
Instead he grabbed my tie and pulled me closer.
The kiss went from forceful to desperate in seconds. His mouth opened under mine and I took full advantage, tasting him properly for the first time. He tasted like coffee and something sweet, like he'd been stress-eating candy while working. The thought made something possessive unfurl in my chest.
I walked him backward until his back hit the wall beside my desk. Pinned him there with my body while I kissed him like I was claiming territory. Like I was proving a point. Like I was making absolutely certain he understood who he belonged to.
He kissed back just as fiercely. Bit my lower lip hard enough to sting. When I pulled back to look at him, his lips were red and his eyes were dark with want and fury.
"You get off on being controlled," I said. My voice came out rougher than intended. "That's what you really hate. Not that I control you. That you like it when I do."
"Fuck you." But there was no heat in it. Just breathless desire.
"Eventually." I caught both his wrists in one hand and pinned them above his head. The position arched his back, pressed his body against mine. "But right now I'm going to fuck you."
His breath hitched. "Luca—"
"That's the first time you've said my name tonight." I leaned in close, speaking against his ear. "Say it again."
"This is a bad idea." But he didn't pull away. Didn't try to escape my hold. "We shouldn't—"
"We absolutely shouldn't. This is probably the worst decision either of us could make." I bit down on his earlobe and felt him shudder. "But we're going to do it anyway. Aren't we?"
A long pause. Then: "Yes."
That single word of surrender made something dark and triumphant flare through me.
I released his wrists but only so I could work open the buttons of his shirt. He stayed pressed against the wall, watching me with those sharp hazel eyes as I undid each button with deliberate precision. I wanted to savor this. Wanted to remember every detail of the first time I got to touch him properly.
The shirt fell open to reveal skin that was pale and lightly freckled. Lean muscle. The sharp jut of collarbones. I traced my fingers over his chest and felt his breath catch.
"You've lost weight," I observed. "You're not taking care of yourself."
"Been busy. Writing all those articles you demand."
"I'm going to start demanding you eat properly too." I leaned down and bit gently at his collarbone. Left a mark that would show. "Can't have my journalist falling apart from stress."
"Not your journalist—" He cut off with a gasp as I bit harder.
