“Molly.” His growl raises the room’s temperature.
I swivel my chair to face him.
He’s looking down at me with those pale eyes that are not cold at all, not even slightly, and the expression on his face is the one he almost never lets out.
Except that one night.
He sounds grumpy. “You have been trying very hard to make my life difficult.”
I muster the most innocence I can at the moment. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“The skirt.”
“Is it some kind of dress code violation? Because we don’t have a dress code, sir.” I’m enjoying toying with him too much to stop now.
His nostrils flare. “And the corridor on Tuesday? The way you brushed past me… inappropriate.”
“How else was I supposed to get through there? The corridor is narrow. It’s always been a problem, but you didn’t want to remodel when I brought it up. Have you changed your mind, sir?”
His jaw sets. “Molly.”
“Yes?”
There’s a silence that lasts approximately one second before his hand curves around my jaw, and the last few weeks of careful professionalism dissolve completely and without apology, as he pulls me to his mouth.
This is worse than the first time. The first time was shock and want colliding, the recklessness of a thing you didn’t plan. This is different, forbidden. Makes it consuming in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
The press of him, the way he lifts me onto my desk irrespective of my laptop, paperwork, pens, none of it matters more than getting him inside of me. He hitches my skirt up carefully—I was smart enough to make sure all my new clothes stretch—and it’s the last careful thing he does to me.
Underwear? In shreds.
Heels? Clattering to the floor.
He doesn’t even bother to get my blouse off before he thrusts home. My legs flail behind him until he lifts them up while he bends forward over me. It’s seconds before all my morning yoga pays off, and my ankles are by my ears. His cock grinds against my G-spot with every stroke, his pelvis mashing my clit, and all I can do is grip the edge of my desk behind me and take it.
“You are trouble, pet.”
Folded up like this, I can barely speak. But I manage to pant, “Yes!”
He growls low, then holds my hands over my head, pinning them there as he pounds into me. His massive weight—all that muscle—holds me down too.
Not that I want to escape.
My core twists around his cock until I explode, and he drives harder, faster, making it last. The lack of oxygen is enough to make my vision go black, but then he backs off enough that I breathe automatically. More like a strangled gasp than a breath.
He eases off, kissing down my body as he goes, until he’s kneeling on the floor. His head is between my thighs at the edge of the desk, and he drinks me in long, slow licks. I can’t hold still—too sensitive. But he wraps his arms around my ass to keep me where he wants me.
And then his tongue twirls around my clit, and I’m on fire.
I dig my fingers into his silver hair. Need something to hold on to. One stroke, another, and then his fingers join the party, hollowing me. I ignite again, coming all over his face and fingers.
The thing that undoes me completely is the reverence. The way he handles me like I matter, like I am, against all the available evidence of his life and his world, something worth being careful with. This isn’t just a hookup—hookups don’t go down on you after the sex. At least, not in my experience.
I’m in serious trouble, and I know it, and I stay anyway.
He turns me over, entering me from behind as he grips my ass. He mutters in Russian while our bodies slap together. When he’s close, I feel it in the way he thickens inside of me. Then Ifeel his pulse there, and it triggers something deep in my core. I launch from his orgasm, and he groans as he comes. His hips jerk forward as he does, like he can’t stop himself.
After that, two mistakes become three. A pattern develops, so I stop pretending. At least, I don’t pretend when it’s just us. No one at the office knows. In meetings, he treats me with the same exacting professionalism as always, and I match it, and the only evidence of anything is the occasional weight of his gaze across a conference table and the fact that I have developed a very detailed familiarity with the ceiling of his office. And the copy room. And each of the conference rooms.
