Page 72 of The Dangerous Dance

I position myself at her entrance. One hand on her hip, the other guiding myself, and I push in.

Slowly. So slowly. She is tight and hot and I want to drive into her but I make myself go slow because I need her to feel this. Every inch.

"Oh god," she breathes, and her back arches, and I sink deeper until I am fully inside her and we both go still.

She is all around me. Hot and slick and tight. I can feel her pulse around my cock and I am holding on to my control by the thinnest margin I have left.

"Move," she says. "I need you to move."

I pull back. I thrust in. She pushes back to meet me and the impact is a sound, skin against skin, and she moans and I make a sound from somewhere deep and I do it again, harder.

I find a rhythm. One hand on her hip, the other braced on the desk beside hers, and I drive into her with steady strokes and she meets me every time. The angle is deeper this way and I can feel the way she responds when I angle slightly up, the way her breath catches when I find the right spot.

"Liam."

"I have you," I say. "I have you."

I increase the pace. The room fills with the sounds of us. Our breathing. Our bodies. The desk shifting on the floor. She drops to her elbows and the new angle makes her cry out and I think I might die from this. The sight of her bent over my desk. The feel of her around me. The knowledge that she chose this. Chose me. Over the operation, over Viktor, over everything she was supposed to be.

I reach around her again. My fingers find her clit and I circle it in time with my thrusts and she jerks like I have shocked her, a sharp desperate sound out of her throat.

"Do not stop," she gasps. "Do not. Liam. I am."

"Come," I say. The word is raw, stripped of anything but the need to feel her come apart. "Come for me, Nadia. Let me feel you."

She breaks.

Her whole body seizes and she clamps around me so hard I see white and she says my name. Not the controlled version. Not the managed version. Just my name out into the grey afternoon air of this office where everything has changed. I feel the pulses of her orgasm around my cock and I thrust through them, drawing it out, and I feel another wave hit her because she shudders again and her arms give out and her chest collapses against the desk.

I do not stop.

I cannot. Weeks of wanting her in this house has boiled down to this. The slick heat of her. The sounds she is making. The sight of her bent over my desk with her spine curved and her hands gripping the far edge. I plant both hands on her hips and I drive into her with something that is not control anymore.

"Again," I say. Not asking. Telling.

"I cannot."

"You can." I change the angle, tilt her hips up, and I feel her body respond. The clench. The gasp. The way she pushes back into me even as she is saying she cannot. "One more. Give me one more."

She is shaking. Her fingers are white-knuckled on the desk edge. I reach around again and when I touch her clit she sobs, actually sobs, a broken wet sound that undoes me completely.

I fuck her through it. Hard steady strokes that rock the desk and rock her and send the Brennan file further across the floor, and she is contracting around me in waves and I feel my own orgasm building at the base of my spine and I know I am close. Right there.

"Nadia." My voice breaks on her name.

"Yes," she says, and I do not know if she is answering me or urging me or just saying the truest thing in this room.

I come with a sound pulled from somewhere deep. I bury myself in her and I hold there, pulsing, my forehead dropped to her back, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. The orgasm rolls through me in waves, each one making my hips jerk involuntarily, each one accompanied by a sound I cannot control. Harsh. Undone. Nothing like the version of me that manages operations and checks circulation twice.

We stay like that.

The room is quiet except for our breathing. The grey light has gone slightly darker. Clouds moving. I can feel her heartbeat through her back, or maybe it is my own.

I press a kiss to her spine. Then another, between her shoulder blades. She shivers.

I pull back. Withdraw carefully. She makes a small sound at the loss that makes me want to start this whole thing over again. I deal with the practical mechanics, and then I turn back to her.

She has not moved. She is still bent over the desk, her cheek resting on the wood, her hair a mess, her eyes half-closed. She looks wrung out. She looks beautiful. She looks like someone who has stopped performing.