He makes a small sound against me that I feel in my teeth, and then his hands come up and grip my hips firmly, holding me exactly where he wants me, and he doesn't stop.
I am entirely here for this. Not floating above myself, not watching from a careful distance. Every nerve in my body is reporting in. The warm pressure of his hands holding my hips steady. The heat of his mouth. The way the daybed is slightly too narrow and I don't care, have completely stopped caring.
He slides one finger inside me.
The sound I make is embarrassing and I don't care about that either.
He curls his finger forward, finding the angle, and the sensation coils tight and hot low in my belly. A second finger joins the first, stretching me open, and his tongue keeps its rhythm, and I feel the orgasm assembling itself from somewhere deep and urgent —
"Logan —"
He doesn't slow. His fingers crook and press and his tongue applies exactly the right pressure and I break apart completely, gasping into the quiet room, my hand fisting in his hair, my whole body shaking with the force of it. He stays with me through every second — patient, thorough, drawing it out until I'm trembling and oversensitive and have to pull him away by his hair because I can't take any more.
He looks up at me.
His chin resting on my inner thigh. His eyes, in this moment, are nothing like the predator's appraisal and nothing like the controlled blank. Just him — the version behind the mask, the version he showed me when his hands were shaking in the dark.
"Come here," I manage.
He moves up over my body, his weight settling alongside me, and I reach for his boxers. My left hand is still clumsy but I'm not stopping now, and he helps without making it a thing, and then the last barrier is gone and he's alongside me and I can feel the full length of him against my hip — thick, hard, the heat of him against my skin.
The want that moves through me is immediate and total.
I get my left hand on his chest. Run my palm over his body, over the scars I've memorized in graphite. I trail my fingers down his stomach, feeling the muscle jump beneath my touch.
My hand reaches down and wraps around his cock.
He exhales, sharp. He's thick in my grip, fully hard, and when I stroke him slowly from base to tip his whole body goes taut. I do it again. His hand comes up and covers mine, not stopping me, just holding. Present.
"Wren." My name in his mouth, rough at the edges.
"Master," I say, feeling an odd thrill that has nothing to do with fear.
I guide him toward me. He positions himself and pauses — looks at me once, the question in it — and I answer by pulling him closer.
He pushes inside me.
Both of us still.
The fullness of it is almost too much to process. He's all the way inside me and neither of us is moving and I can feel my pulse everywhere — in my throat, in my chest, in the places where our bodies are joined — and the connection is so complete that my eyes sting with it.
His forehead drops to mine.
We breathe the same air.
Then he begins to move.
Slow at first — long, deliberate strokes that I feel from some deep center outward, that pull and fill and pull again, building the sensation in expanding rings. I wrap my good arm around his back and hold on, not gripping, just holding. Keeping contact.
He changes the angle and I gasp.
"There." The word comes out before I can stop it, completely undignified. "That."
His mouth curves against my temple. He does it again — deliberately, hitting exactly that place, watching my reaction with those open eyes — and I dig my fingers into his back.
The pace builds. His hands slide to my hips and tilt me to take him deeper and I meet every thrust because Iwantto,because my body is so far ahead of my mind that any pretense of control abandoned me several minutes ago. I can hear us — the rhythm, the daybed moving beneath us, my own breathing going ragged. The sounds I'm making are nothing like quiet, and I'm glad the door is locked and we are in here together making a mess of his controlled office.
I look at his face.
