I grab his hair, pulling hard, and he groans against me, the vibration making me shiver all over. His hands grip my thighs, pulling me closer to his mouth, spreading me wider. I can hear the wet, filthy sounds he’s making, and I know, I KNOW, that whoever is sitting outside that door can hear them too. Fuck, I should care. But I don’t.
I come hard enough that my hand slams down on the desk and sends his phone clattering to the floor. But Nik doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow down. He licks me through my orgasm, then stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes feral, his cock straining against his suit pants.
“Turn around,” he growls.
I do. Palms flat on his desk. Looking out at the San Francisco skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. And I think: a year ago I was serving pancakes at Rosetti’s. Now I’m bent over a Bratva boss’s desk on the thirtieth floor of a high-rise. Life is fucking wild.
He fucks me hard and fast, one hand gripping my hip, the other pressing between my shoulder blades, holding me down against the polished wood. Every thrust shoves the desk forward an inch, its legs scraping the floor. His breath is ragged, his grip bruising, and he’s murmuring filth against my back, what I look like right now, how tight I am, how he’s going to fill me up, how every man in this city knows who this pussy belongs to.
I come again with my face pressed against a report, biting my lip so hard I taste blood.
Nik follows right after, slamming deep and holding, pulsing inside me, his forehead between my shoulder blades, saying my name like it’s the only word he knows.
We stay there for a minute. Breathing raggedly. His weight on my back. His cock still inside me. The city surrounding us through the windows.
“You just fucked me on a report,” I huff out, blowing hair out of my face.
“Numbers were shit,” he replies, and I laugh, which makes him groan because he’s still balls deep inside me.
He pulls out, cleans us with tissues from a box sitting on his desk. I catch my reflection in a gold-framed mirror on the wall. My blouse is wrinkled, my hair a mess, my legs shaking. I look like a woman who just got thoroughly, deliciously, amazingly railed. My husband smooths my hair, tucks my blouse back in, and kisses my forehead.
When he opens the door and walks me out with his hand on my back, past his employees, they’re all staring very hard at their computer screens. Not one of them looks up.
In the elevator, I bury my face in his chest, laughing.
The elevator doors close and I feel his hand go to my ass, squeezing.
“Nik.”
“Hmm,” he hums against my lips.
I giggle into our kiss. “We’re in an elevator.”
“I know,” he rumbles back, still not breaking the kiss.
I hiss, “We’re not doing it in an elevator.”
“We’ll see.”
17
Epilogue
Zara
I’m nine months pregnant, waddling like a duck. A very large, very hormonal, very over-it duck who has to pee every ten minutes and can’t see her own feet.
Nikolai won’t let me do anything. Not cook, or clean, or reach for anything. Last week I tried to pick up a sock and one of his guys materialized out of nowhere to grab it for me. A grown man in a three-piece suit, holding my dirty sock like it was a live grenade, asking if I needed anything else.
“This is insane,” I tell Nik that night.
“You’re carrying our child. Nothing is insane.”
I huffed. “Your child is using my bladder as a punching bag. I think he takes after you.”
“She,” Nik corrected, giving me his devastatingly handsome grin.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s a boy, Nik. I can feel it.”
