“That long,” I say.
I work through it slowly. His shirt is still on, and I can feel the heat of him through the fabric and the geography of where the tension lives, tight across the top, worse on the left, a hard point just below the base of his skull that makes him go very still when I find it and press carefully into it.
His hands are on his knees when I start. After a few minutes, they open.
He doesn’t talk and I don’t talk and the city does its late-night thing outside the windows and I work through the knots one by one with the focused attention of someone who has decided this is worth doing properly. At some point the line of his back changes, something releasing that he has been carrying for so long he stopped noticing its weight, and he exhales slowly and drops his head forward an inch.
I press my thumbs along the base of his skull one more time.
He turns around.
I’m still kneeling behind him on the bed. Without a word, he catches my wrist and pulls me forward until I’m straddling his lap, facing him. My knees sink into the mattress on either side of his hips. He’s already hard. The thick, heavy length of him presses firmly against the soft fabric between my legs.
“Feel how hard you make me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough against my ear. His hands settle on my waist, warm and steady. “Just from your hands on my shoulders. You have no idea what you do to me.”
A small giggle escapes me, surprised and warm. I rock my hips once, slowly, grinding down against the hard ridge of his cock. The friction sends a spark through me, and I do it again, slower this time, savoring the way his breath catches.
“That is dangerous,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice, and his fingers tighten on my waist, encouraging the movement.
For a long moment, we stay like that.
I grind against him in lazy circles while he watches my face, his eyes dark and open in a way I have rarely seen. The tension in his shoulders is gone. In its place is something quieter. He lets me set the pace, lets me feel how much he wants this without rushing.
Then he stands up with me still wrapped around him. My legs lock around his hips, and my arms go around his neck. He carries me the few steps across the room to the desk as if I weigh nothing. The city lights glitter softly beyond the windows. He sets me down carefully on the edge of the wooden surface and steps back just enough to look at me.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my soft lounge pants and panties together.
He pulls them down my legs slowly, inch by inch, letting the fabric slide over my skin. When they reach my ankles, I kick them off. I’m bare from the waist down now, the cool night air brushing against my heated skin. He spreads my thighs wider with both hands, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin near my hips gently.
He drops to his knees in front of the desk.
His mouth finds me without hurry.
He presses a soft kiss to the inside of my thigh first, then another higher up. When his tongue finally licks a long, slow stripe up my center, I let out a shaky breath.
He takes his time, exploring me with broad, unhurried strokes, then focuses on my clit with steady, gentle circles.
Two of his fingers slide inside me, curling softly, stroking that spot that makes my hips lift off the desk. The pleasure builds gradually, deep and warm, spreading through my whole body.
“Roman,” I whisper, my hand threading into his silver hair.
He keeps going, licking and sucking until my thighs begin to tremble around his shoulders.
When the orgasm finally washes over me, it is slow and intense, rolling through me in long waves. I grip the edge of the desk and moan his name quietly as I come on his tongue.
He stands up, kisses me deeply, and lets me taste myself on his lips. The kiss is slow and filthy and perfect, his hand cupping the back of my head. While our mouths are still locked, he frees himself from his pants and lines up at my entrance.
He pushes inside me in one smooth, deep thrust. I gasp into his mouth at the stretch, the fullness. He stays buried inside me for several breaths, letting me adjust, his forehead resting against mine.
Then he starts to move—deep, steady strokes that rock the desk gently beneath me. His hands stay on my hips, holding me with care, always aware of the small curve of my belly. Every thrust is deliberate, unhurried, filling me completely.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs against my lips. “So warm and tight around me. I could stay right here for hours.”
I wrap my legs tighter around his waist and meet every slow thrust. The pleasure builds again, deeper this time, until it breaks over me in another long, shuddering wave.
I come with a soft cry, clenching around him, my forehead pressed to his shoulder. He follows right after, burying himself deep and groaning my name quietly as he finishes inside me.
He stays inside me for a long moment, breathing against my neck. Then he pulls out carefully, lifts me off the desk, and carries me back to the bed.
