Page 19 of Mister St. James

“Promise?” I whisper, leaning back farther on the desk and licking the slick of his precum from my thumb.

He yanks me closer to the edge of the desk, and then he’s inside me in one brutal thrust, a delicious stretch and the blunt shock of fullness, filling me completely. The desk rocks under us, papers everywhere, a contract crushed under my ass and another glued to his palm by our sweat.

I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming, but he doesn’t care. He clamps his hand over my mouth again, and fucks me like he’s trying to break me. The rope rubs against my clit with every thrust, doubling the pleasure until I’m completely fucking unraveled. He fists my hair, pulling my head back so he can watch my face, and the look in his eyes is pure fucking madness and I love it.

I wrap my legs around him, digging my heels into his ass, and my nails claw at his back, leaving angry red marks. The desk creaks under us, the sound loud. The risk is omnipresent. The admin is one floor down, the cleaning crew on twelve. If anyone comes to the door, there’s no hiding this, no plausible deniability, just scandal and ruin and the best orgasm of my fucking life. But I don’t care, not when he’s fucking me like this, not when every thrust feels like heaven.

He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear, and his voice is low, rough, when he growls, “Been driving me fucking insane since you walked in this morning.” The words tear through me like electricity, and I come, wild and unscripted, the pleasure so sharp I see stars. He doesn’t stop, just keeps thrusting, the slap of his hips punctuating the moans I can’t suppress. He holds off, waits until I’m shuddering and incoherent, then follows, grunting my name like a curse as he spills inside me.

We’re both fucking wrecked, panting, tangled together on the desk, and the only sound is our ragged breathing. Aiden is the first to move. He unties my harness with far more skill and far less time than it took me to craft it. His hands are tender, massaging the marks left by the rope. His face, when he finally meets my gaze, is almost reverent.

“We have to be more careful,” he says, but he’s smiling, the lines of his face softening in a way I’ve never seen.

“Define careful,” I shoot back, slipping off the desk, legs wobbling as I straighten my skirt.

He re-buttons his pants, runs a hand through his hair, and, just as he is about to say something else, a ping erupts from his phone.

Aiden checks the screen, “Fuck. Board meeting, fifteen minutes. Video conference. I need to—”

I laugh, and for the first time in weeks, it isn’t bitter or barbed. “You’re going to ace it. Just…fix your tie, sir.”

He yanks the tie straight, and I wipe the lipstick off his jaw, and adjust his glasses. I tuck the rope in my purse, savoring the residual burn on my thighs. I open the door, and step into the empty corridor.

“Cat?”

“Yeah?” I look over my shoulder at him.

His voice is softer now. “Tonight. Penthouse. Seven. Don’t be late.”

I nod and walk away, the ache between my legs matched only by the satisfaction curdling in my gut. I’m not sure which of us is winning, or if that even matters.

But I know this, for the first time, I’m exactly where I want to be.

Chapter eleven

Discretion

Aiden

I check the clock. 6:54. My penthouse is silent except for the distant hum of the city, filtered through three layers of security glass. The place is basically stripped to only essentials, a living room bare as a surgical suite, the kitchen island veined white marble, an empty designer vase in the center. I built it as a bunker, a waystation for work, not a home.

I hover by the windows, whiskey glass in hand. My suit is off, replaced by a fitted button-down shirt and the jeans I bought last year because my friend, Marcus, forced me to. Stating, “a man’s got to have something to wear in between suits and sweats.” I look casual, but my heart is running at test-bench speeds.

My phone pings. A message: “Here. Should I let myself up?”

I reply, “Yes. Code is the same.”

Cat’s always early, but never more than five minutes. It’s the first time we’ll see each other outside the office, outside the club, outside any mask but our own skin.

I hear the elevator before I see her. The click of her heels, sharp and purposeful, echoing up the marble corridor as if they belong here more than I do. Even from behind the smoked glass of my front entry, I can track her approach, each step a pulse, every pulse a data point in the slow-rolling event horizon that is Catalina Vaquer.

When I see her silhouette, I open the door.

“Good evening, Mr. St. James,” she says, the words crisp and clean.

“Good evening, Ms. Vaquer,” I answer, stepping aside to let her in.

I don’t even try to hide the fact that I am staring at her like I’m fucking starving and she’s a buffet. She wears a nude sleeveless cocktail dress, with a distractingly deep V and a delicate black floral mesh overlay. The fabric is so thin it catches on her curves like static.