Page 26 of My Girl to Take

The coffee is forgotten. Everything else is forgotten.

I lift her easily and set her back against the desk without breaking the kiss, the edge pressing into the backs of her thighs as she steadies herself against me. Her fingers tighten on my shirt as I deepen the kiss, my control slipping just enough to let something stronger take over.

“You keep showing up like this,” I murmur against her lips. “You expect me to behave?”

Her breath catches, her head tilting back as I trail my mouth along her jaw.

“I didn’t come here for this,” she whispers.

“No?” My hand tightens at her waist. “Could’ve fooled me, baby.”

A faint sound leaves her, something between protest and agreement, and it only pushes me further.

I stand there looking at her, laid out on my desk like a gift I don’t deserve.

I don’t give her time to think.

My hands slide up her thighs, pushing the fabric of her dress higher, bunching it at her waist. She’s wearing stockings. Black. Lace tops peeking out beneath the hem.

Fuck.

I make a sound in my throat, something between a growl and a mutter. My fingers hook into the waistband of her panties, and I drag them down her legs, slow enough to watch her face—the way her breath comes out uneven, the way her eyes go dark.

“Spread your legs.”

She does. Hesitant at first, then wider when I don’t move. I stand there looking at her, dress still on, pushed up to her waist, her breasts hidden beneath silk and buttons. I’ll fix that.

But first, I need to taste her.

I drop to my knees, ignoring the ache in my cock, the urgency pounding through me. This isn’t about fast. This is about making her forget where she is, who she is, everything except my mouth on her.

The first stroke is slow, deliberate, bottom to top, and she arches off the desk with a cry that echoes in the empty office. I grip her hips, holding her down, and do it again, circling her clit with the tip of my tongue before drawing it into my mouth.

“Oh God,” she breathes, her hands flying to my hair, gripping tight.

I don’t stop. I settle in, finding a rhythm that makes her moan, makes her thighs tense around my shoulders. She’s slick, ready, and I groan against her, the vibration making her jerk. I want to drown in this, in her, in the way she responds like her body was made for my hands, my mouth.

“Logan,” she whispers, and it’s ragged and goes through me like a shot of whiskey.

I pull back just enough to look at her—her face flushed, her lips parted, her eyes glazed. “You taste so fucking good.” Her hips buck against my mouth.

I go back to work with renewed hunger, adding two fingers, sliding them deep, curling to find the spot that makes her scream. She's loud, louder than she should be.

And that’s the moment I remember there are people on this floor.

“Quiet,” I murmur against her, but I’m smiling, and she knows I don’t mean it.

She tries. She bites her lip, her head falling back, her chest heaving. But when I press harder, suck deeper, she can’t help it. A moan rips from her throat, high and desperate.

Footsteps in the hall.

We both freeze. Her eyes fly open, wide and terrified, and I feel the spike of her pulse where my fingers are still buried inside her. The sound is distant, maybe two offices down, but it’s enough. Enough to make her tense, enough to make her try to close her legs.

I don’t let her. I press my palm against her thigh, holding her open, and push deeper, curling hard.

“Logan…” she gasps, her voice panicked, her body betraying her by clenching around me.

“Shh,” I whisper, but I’m not stopping. If anything, the fear in her eyes, the way she’s trying to stay quiet while her body answers me, makes me harder. “Someone’s going to hear you, baby. You better be very quiet.”