I moan when his hands push my dress up, slowly, the fabric cascading on either side of me, and find bare skin and I inhale sharply at the warmth of his palms against the office chill. He runs his hands up the outside of my legs, over my hips, along my waist, as if he is taking inventory. As if he needs to account for every part of me, his thumbs pressing into my hipbones with just enough force to make me gasp.
“Please,” I say, my hips tilting toward him instinctively.
Still, he takes his time.
His mouth finds my throat again, lips and tongue, warm and deliberate, while his hands travel back down, inside my thighs now, parting them wider, and I grip the edge of the desk, the wood biting into my palms. The city tilts slightly in my peripheral vision.
“Here,” he says, as his fingers find me, and he makes a sound that is low and satisfied. The pad of one finger circles my clit, swollen and aching, before two slide deep inside me.
“God, Ivy,” he murmurs. “Still so wet.”
My breath hitches. I never know how to reply to that.
His thumb pressing my clit in firm circles, and my head falls back as the pleasure coils tight, my walls fluttering around his fingers. He works me slowly, that specific merciless patience he has. My hands are in his hair as rain drums the glass. The city glitters twenty floors below. His mouth finds my nipple through the thin fabric of my dress, sucking hard, teeth grazing, and I gasp and arch into it and he increases the pressure of his fingers and I feel the orgasm beginning to gather, enormous, inevitable, the accumulation of this entire impossible day.
“Please,” I say. My voice has abandoned all dignity. “Please, Alistair. I need you inside me.”
He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes dark, his jaw set. And then, instead of giving me what I am asking for, instead of doing the single obvious and merciful thing, he reaches past me and opens the desk drawer, and switches something on. It hums with a fine vibration.
“Alistair,” I say. I wasn’t sure I could bear it. I just wanted him inside me.
His eyes glitter in the dim light. The dildo in his hand looks expensive and is warm to the touch already, a deep rose gold, elegant.
“You had that in yourdesk?—”
He looks at me with those dark, calm, utterly composed eyes. “I had it planned. I just didn’t think it would happen today.”
CHAPTER 19
You’re Doing So Well
ALISTAIR
I take my time.
The toy is warm in my hand—body temperature already, by design—and substantial. More than she is used to. I can see it in her face when she looks at it—the wanting and the wariness in equal measure, which is an expression I find extraordinarily compelling.
“Alistair—”
“Trust me,” I say.
I press it against her entrance—not inside, not yet, just the warmth and the weight of it, and I activate the vibration low against her clit and watch her breath leave her body in a long unsteady exhale.
“Oh—”
I keep it there. Circling. Watching her face.
She is already so wet that the toy slides fractionally forward without me pushing it and she gasps—her hands flying to the desk edge, gripping hard.
“Wait—”
“Breathe.”
She breathes. I hold the toy absolutely still and let the vibration do its work and watch the wariness begin to shift in her face, the wanting taking over by degrees. Her hips make a small involuntary movement. Toward it rather than away.
There.
I press it the smallest amount further.
