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He straightens and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Then he unbuckles his belt.

I watch him from the table, wrists still bound above my head, legs still spread. He opens his trousers and pulls his cock free, thick and flushed and hard, and strokes it once while he looks at me.

My pussy clenches around nothing.

He grips my hips and drags me to the edge of the table. He pushes my knees up toward my chest and holds them there by the backs of my thighs, folding me open.

“Watch,” he says.

I lift my head. He drags the head of his cock through my wetness, presses it against my entrance, and pushes in.

Slowly. Inch by inch.

I watch him disappear inside me, and the stretch steals my breath. Seven years. My body remembers him anyway, remembers the exact shape of him, and opens. He bottoms out and holds there. A rough sound leaves his chest.

“Fuck, Blaire.”

Then he moves. There’s no easing into it. He pulls almost all the way out and slams back in, hard, the table jolting beneath me. Again. Again. The table rattles. My breasts bounce with every stroke. He holds my legs open and fucks me harder, and I take it, gasping, my head falling back against the wood.

I lift my bound hands off the table.

“I told you to leave them there.”

I don’t. I loop my tied wrists over his head, around the back of his neck, and pull him down to me.

His eyes darken, but he lets me. He comes down onto his forearms, caught inside the circle of my arms, his face an inch from mine, and the new angle drives him deeper. My legs wrap around his waist. He grinds into me, hard and deep, his pelvis rolling against my clit with every thrust.

“Feel that?” he says against my mouth.

I bite his lower lip. He groans and drives in harder. The pressure coils again, lower and heavier. I pull him closer by the neck, heels digging into his back, and I come around him with a sob I bury against his mouth, clenching so hard that he loses his rhythm entirely.

He buries himself to the hilt. His whole body locks. A low, broken groan tears out of him against my lips, and I feel him pulse inside me, hot and heavy, filling me until there’s nothing left.

For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he lifts my wrists back over his head and tugs the knot loose. The silk slides away. My arms fall to the table, and he braces one hand beside me, his forehead nearly touching mine.

My body is still trembling from the force of what just happened, every nerve humming while my breathing slowly begins to settle. Ross stays close, one hand braced beside me against the table, his forehead nearly touching mine as we both try to recover.

When he finally steps back, the loss of his warmth registers immediately. I sit up and push my hair away from my face while Ross straightens his clothes. My dress is on the floor beside the table, twisted together with everything else we discarded without thinking. He bends, picks it up and holds it out to me. I take it without saying anything. The silence feels different now.

A few minutes ago, there was no room in my head for anything except him. Now everything comes rushing back at once. My stomach drops.

What the hell have I done?

Ross is still watching me.

“Blaire,” he says quietly.

I shake my head and reach for the rest of my clothes. I can feel him trying to read me while I dress, but I won't look at him long enough to let him.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Dinner was supposed to satisfy his curiosity. I was supposed to listen, leave and go back to my hotel with the same boundaries I had when I arrived.

Instead, I'm standing in a locked archive room trying to straighten my dress while his cum drips down my thigh, and my entire body still remembers exactly why staying away from Ross Kensington has always required more discipline than I want to admit.

He steps closer.