He lifts me like I weigh nothing.
My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and the new angle presses his cock directly against my core.
Even through layers of denim, the pressure is devastating.
I moan into his mouth—a broken, desperate sound I barely recognize—and roll my hips against him.
Grinding myself on his hardness, chasing friction I shouldn't want, unable to stop.
His fingers dig into my thighs hard enough to bruise. "Fuck. Liberty—you feel?—"
He carries me to the desk. Sweeps everything off with one violent arm—laptop crashing to the floor, papers scattering, a crystal decanter shattering into glittering shards.
He sets me on the edge and steps between my thighs, his hands shoving up my shirt, yanking at my bra, desperate to get to skin.
"Tell me to stop." His mouth is at my throat, teeth grazing my pulse. "Tell me to stop and I will. I'll walk away. I'll never touch you again."
I should. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to end this. To shove him away. To save whatever scraps of dignity I have left.
His fingers find my nipple and roll it between thumb and forefinger.
Pleasure shoots through me like lightning—straight through me, making me clench around nothing, making me gasp.
"I hate you," I hear myself say instead.
"I know." He yanks my shirt over my head. Unhooks my bra and lets it fall. Stares at my bare breasts like he's seeing something sacred. "God, I know."
His mouth closes over my nipple—hot and wet and devastating—and everything else disappears.
There's only sensation now.
His tongue circling the hardened peak.
His teeth grazing.
His hand palming my other breast, thumb brushing over the nipple until I'm arching into him, fisting his hair, pulling him closer when I should be pushing him away.
Sounds spill from my throat that I don't recognize—needy, broken, animal sounds.
I should be ashamed.
I'm too far gone to care.
His hand slides down my stomach. Pops the button on my jeans. Drags the zipper down with a rasp that makes me shiver.
I help him.
Lift my hips so he can drag the denim down my legs.
I'm wearing plain cotton underwear—nothing sexy, nothing special—but he looks at me like I'm wearing diamonds.
"Fucking gorgeous." His voice is wrecked. "You're so fucking gorgeous it hurts to look at you."
He drops to his knees.
The sight of him there—Elias Ashford, obsessive billionaire, kneeling on his own study floor with his face inches from my pussy—sends a dark thrill through me.
I fist my hand in his hair and yank his head back, forcing him to meet my eyes. "This doesn't mean anything."
