“Someone could see—” She feels like she has to say it. The contours of protest, none of its substance.
“You just came on my desk,” he says, hands settling heavy on her waist. “I think you’re past caring.”
“That’s—”
Her breath rushes, sudden intake, as he presses into her, pushing her against the window.
It’s easier—barely—taking him when she’s this wet, when he starts slow. Residual pleasure rushes back, with the strain of balancing on her toes, as she tries to accommodate his height. Her body gives into him with each thrust, the initial cold clench of surprise melting into growing heat, steadily yielding; and, too, the relief of it, again: him inside of her, oncoming loss of thought—she doesn’t need to think. Lili lets her head fall back against his shoulder.
A low breath of a laugh, against her ear.
“Are you always this willing?” he murmurs. “Or is it only with me?”
Fight rears back in Lili. “Do you usually fuck on company time, or is it only with me?” she snaps, breathless.
He laughs for real then. Slow, hard thrusts into her, long drags out, as he keeps pressing her harder against the window, glinting city and black night. “Most women aren’t half as adventurous as you.”
She doesnotlike the mention of other women. Lili pushes her hips back against him, hard.
Another laugh, a huff against her hair. “Jealous?” he says, tease tracing his words. “I don’t mind what it does to you—how tight you get. Like I’m fucking you for the first time—”
“Or the last time,” she retorts, gathering all the fight she has left.
Aleksandr grabs her face, grip tight against her jaw. “Watch your words, or I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll walk out of this office limping.”
“Promise?” she whispers, holding back a grin. That competitiveness, the dare of it, is one of the last things she can reach for—the only equilibrium she can grasp when she’s given him control like this.
A harsh hit of his hips, as he forces her face against the glass, hand tangled in her hair.
“There’s a whole city out there,” he says, the exertion of how hard he’s starting to fuck her only barely coming through in his voice. “Do you want them to see what a whore you are?” Lili’s moan—stupid,stupid—falls against the glass, fogging it up. “I think you do. I think you love the idea of them seeing you fucked within an inch of your life—”
“I think you do, too,” she bites back. “I think you get off on this—”
Again, he laughs. That dark, low sound that seems tailor-made to arouse and irritate her, condescension inspiring the most confusing mix of infuriated want. “I do,” he says. “Keep this up, and you might be some of the best sex I’ve ever had.”
The thought that she isn’t already? It makes something noxious inside of her burn.
He is not going to win this.
Struggling against the weight of him, Lili reaches for his hip, pulling him closer as she grinds back. She tightens her abdomen, trying to set the rhythm. There’s a change in his breath, and she thinks, for a moment, that she can do it—make him come before her—she can win—
But that laugh, his stupid laugh.
Aleksandr grasps her hands, pinning them against the window. “Little Lili,” he says. “Trying so hard to keep up.”
It’s brutal, how he slams into her then: unexpected, fucking a cry out of her so sharp and high there’s no chance the rest of the office didn’t hear. Lili lurches forward, pain blooming bright and beautiful. The glass is cold against her forehead. People can see her, see them—indistinct figures in distant windows. She can just make out the reflection of her own face, blown pupils, parted mouth—the gleam of her naked outline visible in the glass, how he’s fucking her. The heavy stretch of him inside of her—carving out space, making her something for him—pushes her closer to an edge she wants to cut herself on.
Lili has always enjoyed sex. The fun and distraction of it, its predictable but exciting exhilaration; mixing the right amount of alcohol with the right smile, a tilt of her head, a well-timed laugh—then, inevitably, an apartment in Greenpoint or Nolita or near St. Mark’s Place, fixed-gearbikes in the hall, stale weed smoke, navy blue sheets. The temporary shine of newness, momentary satisfaction.
But this—the way Aleksandr fucks her? Compared to other people—boys, girls—how she has to direct them, nudge them? With him, Christ, it’s like she barely has to think. She can just let go and fall open, and he’ll know what to do to her; hot and bruising, she feels full in her own body. She’s had good sex before him; theoretically, she’ll have good sex after him. But this is something else—this doesn’t feel like the type of sex she can forget; the type of escape she can go without—this feels like a before, and an after—
No.
Scrambling for a retort, she tries to bring back the casual fight of it. “You’re getting close to being the best sex I’ve ever had,” she gasps, “but not quite—”
Just as she starts to see that luminous edge come into focus, the transcendent weight of it on her tongue, the promise of tension lifted, he stops moving.
“What—Aleksandr, what—”
