He massages my scalp, aware that I’m blissed out, and murmurs into a call. I don’t pay much attention because I’m tethered to an oblivion I don’t want to float down from. My aftershocks cocoon me in serenity, and there, at Axel’s feet, I let myself believe this could last. That his thorn really is his forever treasure.
Until he says, “He’s missing? I didn’t share your media contact’s name with anyone. But I’ll look into it, Lev.”
He’s talking to Lev Popov—the Russian Mafia don who supplied Axel with a contact for the media conglomerate in the arbitration meeting. The same contact I tracked down and turned into Tripp.
It’s with that pronouncement that I remember whether I’m in the wilderness of a desolate mission or immersed in a castle garden at La Lune Noire, I’m an assassin. A thorn in Axel’s side. A mistress riding a shoe. An invasive weed.
AXEL
Within a second of ending my call, I scoop Zara into my arms. Her eyelids are hooded from her climax, but her pine-needle irises are barbed with defensiveness. She assumes I’m angry about her eavesdropping, that I’m hung up on her relaying intel that compromises my job. I have a lot of thoughts about her and the information I just received, and none of them even skirt the margins of wrath.
All I see is the flushed face of the woman brave enough to seize what she desired in an awkward situation, trusting enough to lay her needs at my feet, loyal enough to be conflicted because her allegiances are at odds. Despite her nefarious profession, she’s good to her very core.
And then there’s the sexy indent beneath her ribs, the swell of her perky breasts, the dimples above her heart-shaped ass—pieces of her that pulse with the wordmine.
Her tears shattered me last night. This is my brand of restoration for us both.
I shove my computer and untouched dinner aside and lay her atop the desk, stomach down, legs kicked apart. After swillingmy drink and holding two ice cubes in my mouth, I crouch behind her, licking a path from her clit to the rose between her cheeks, dipping inside her opening along the way. She writhes from the sensitivity, purring from the relief it extends and bucking from the mild discomfort.
Desperate for her flavor to coat my tongue, I trail the torturous route several more times. I can never get enough of her. But eventually, when tremors are sailing through her limbs, I unbuckle my pants, unsheathe my leaking cock from my boxer briefs, and remove the tape from her mouth.
She spits out the panties and huffs, “Your door.”
Determined to keep her squirming at the thought of being caught or being watched, which is something she’s expressed keen interest in, I don’t tell her I have a remote lock that I employed as soon as my receptionist left.
Instead, I drag my dick back and forth over Zara’s chilled cunt until I’m certain she’s about to combust, even having just come on my shoe. By far the most erotic experience of my life.
“All the more reason to stay quiet for me, my daring Thorn.” With an unforgiving thrust, I fill her like her body is craving.
The plug in her ass cramps everything. A fit so tight that stars dance before me. Blood rushes against my eardrums in awhooshingroar. I’m dizzy with the taste and scent and feel of her. So fucking responsive and inviting. Hot and cold at once. I stall to regroup, to get my bearings—something I’ve never struggled to do before Zara. But I’m not just inside her. It’s like she’s inside me—a poison without an antidote, like I first thought. Death has never sounded sweeter.
“More then,” she begs, surrendering her fears about the call and the door to the euphoria she’s reaching for.
Without slowing my tempo, I pluck a small bottle of warming oil from my barely-hanging-on pants, squirt some on my fingers,and slink them down to stir her clit. She’s still chilled to the touch, so the contrast in sensations strikes her just as I hoped.
“Fuck,” she mutters through a moan, boldly rutting into my hand. “Oh, yes.”
She’s phenomenal like this. She’s phenomenal always. Here though, stretched out before me—wanton and pliable, her mahogany hair mussed and fanning her muscular back and my desk, her resistance lower, the sumptuous flare of her hips, and her rapture painting my shaft and dripping down her thighs—it’s more than I ever thought I’d have.
Every moment with her is greater than the sum of all my highlights.
“That’s my greedy girl.” I glide my other palm over her smooth, sweat-slicked skin, following the path on her spine, massaging the tension from her muscles, relishing every sinful moan that tumbles from her lips, until I travel the stretch of her arm, taking her hand in mine. I hover over her, clothed but bare, pumping with feral yearnings and breaking for this woman.
Christ. I think I must’ve fucked her about twenty times in the last few days, but every time is like the first. A test of my control, winning even when I lose it.
“Come for me, darling. You’re too breathtaking. I won’t last long with you like this.”
Her only response is a whimper—maybe too dazed to form words—but as my lips dust her shoulder blade, her inner walls clamp around my length, throttling it with her exaltation.
Sensing her stifled scream, I bring our joined hands to her mouth, muzzling her gasps as she spasms in my embrace. “Shh, baby. I’ve got you.”
Blind to anything other than the duplicitous angel writhing beneath me, I piston my hips with a ferocity to chase the oblivion that is so uniquely her. The air is steamy, more reminiscent of a sauna than an office. And my balls draw up with the vanquishingpleasure that will ripple through me. A lit match held to a kerosine-soaked cardboard box—explosive and obliterating.
I sink my teeth into her skin and smother my groan as I jolt into her with jagged pumps. Her back arches in response, which somehow deepens my already-up-to-the-hilt position and has my final thrusts growing more aggressive, draining every morsel of ecstasy from us both.
We stay that way—with our chests heaving, our heartbeats pounding in tandem, her cocooned by my frame while we mantle my desk—until this high-rise office is aglow with the sun’s retreat into the Mississippi River, declaring the last minutes of our workplace tryst. We’re spent from a day teetering on the edge and ultimately skyrocketing to a mind-blowing release.
And I refuse to peel her off this wood slab that means nothing to me without her understanding that she is my everything. “Tell me you feel it. Please, Zar, tell me you feel this.”
