I cross the room. I walk around the desk to where he's sitting and he pushes the chair back. I step into the space between hisknees and his hands go to my hips automatically. Thumbs on the bone, fingers wrapping around to the small of my back. The grip that saysI know where you are.
"I found my old photo album," I say. "Pictures of my parents. My childhood. Friends from before Jason."
His thumbs move in small circles on my hips. He doesn't say anything. He waits.
"I think I want to reach out to some of them. After the wedding. When things settle. There were people I loved, Nick. Good people. I let Jason take them from me the way he took everything else, one piece at a time until I didn't notice the gaps anymore." I put my hands on his shoulders. "I don't want gaps anymore."
"Then fill them."
Three words. The same economy he brings to everything. No lecture about healing, no caveats about being careful, no analysis of whether the friendships can be rebuilt. Just: do the thing you need to do.
"I looked at the dress again," I say.
"How many times today?"
"Five."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Is it still there?"
"Yes." I push my fingers through his hair, enjoying the softness of it then lean down and press my lips against his.
It starts soft. The kind of kiss I give him in the morning over coffee, the kind that saysI'm here, you're here, the day hasn't started yet.But his hands slide from my hips to my lower back and pull, and I step closer, and the angle changes, and the softness tips into something else.
His mouth opens as his tongue finds mine, and the taste of him is warm and specific. I make a sound in my throat that I don't plan and his grip tightens and he pulls me down onto his lap.
I straddle him. The chair creaks under our combined weight and his hands are on my thighs now, spreading them wider across his lap, his fingers pressing into the muscle through the thin cotton of my leggings. I can feel him hardening beneath me, the ridge of him growing firm against the seam of my leggings, and I roll my hips once, deliberately, and watch his eyes darken.
I pull my shirt over my head, revealing that I’m not wearing a bra. I didn't bother this morning because I knew today was for unpacking boxes, and there's a freedom in this house that I'm still getting used to. The freedom of a woman who doesn't have to armor herself against the person she lives with.
His eyes drop to my breasts and his jaw tightens. I feel the reaction against me, the pulse of blood, the twitch of his cock straining against his trousers. His hands cover me, palms warm against my nipples, and he squeezes once, watching my face while he does it.
"These," he says, his voice rough. "I think about these in meetings. Dmitri is reviewing quarterly figures and I'm thinking about the way you look right now."
"That's very unprofessional."
"I'm a criminal, Sadie. Professionalism is not my primary concern."
I laugh. The laugh turns into a gasp when he leans forward and takes my nipple into his mouth, tongue circling the peak, teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt straight to my core. My hands grip his hair and I arch into him, pressing more of myself against his mouth, and he takes it, greedy, sucking hard enough that I feel the pull in my pelvis.
His hand slides down my stomach and into my leggings without finesse, without teasing. His fingers push past the waistband of my underwear and find me wet, slick, ready in the way I'm always ready when his mouth is on me and his hands are rough.
"Already," he murmurs against my breast. His fingers slide through me, parting, stroking. "You're already soaked."
His finger finds my clit and circles it with the precision of a man who has mapped this territory extensively.
I reach between us and work his belt open. The buckle clinks. I undo the button, the zipper, and free him, wrapping my hand around the hot, hard length of him. He groans a little when I stroke, my thumb tracing the head, spreading the bead of moisture I find there.
"I want you," I say. "Right here. In this chair. In this office where you do all your scary Bratva things."
"Scary Bratva things." His fingers thrust inside me, two of them, curling, and my hand stutters on his cock. "Is that the technical term?"
A low, closed mouth hum in agreement comes from my throat, then I manage to say, “Fuck me, Nick."
Something flares in his eyes. He withdraws his hand from my leggings and grips the waistband with both hands and pulls. The leggings tear at the seam. I don’t care. I lift my hips enough for him to drag the fabric and my underwear down my thighs. I kick one leg free, enough, and sink back onto his lap.
His cock is between us, pressed flat against my mound, and I rise up on my knees reaching down to position him. The head of him nudges against my entrance, hot and blunt. I hold his gaze. Grey eyes, blown dark, stripped of every pretense of control.
I sink down onto him.
