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I take control of the movement from there, dragging her to the edge of the table until our bodies meet again with nothing tentative left between us.

Weeks of measured conversations, restrained glances, and deliberate distance have narrowed to this, her hands gripping my shirt, my body between her thighs, and the certainty that neither of us intends to stop this time.

Her hands drop to my belt as she yanks at the leather, fumbling, pulling it one way and then the other until the buckle finally gives. I don't help her. I watch her hands work, her fingers quick and unsteady as she tears the button loose and drags my zipper down.

She reaches inside my briefs and pulls me out. My cock is so hard it aches. She wraps her hand around it and strokes me once, and my jaw locks. Then I take over. I grip myself at the base, drag the head through her wetness, and push into her.

She gasps into my mouth. She is soaked and impossibly tight, and I don't give her time to adjust. I pull back and drive into her again, hard, and the table groans beneath us. Folders slide off the far edge and slap onto the floor. Neither of us looks.

I fuck her with no rhythm and no restraint, every thrust deeper than the last. The table creaks with each one.

My hand slides up to her throat and closes around it—just enough to hold her where I want her—her pulse hammering against my palm. My other hand grips her thigh, fingers sinking into her flesh, spreading her wider for me.

Her eyes stay on mine.

"Ross," she moans. "Oh God—"

I drive into her harder. Her nails dig through my shirt into my shoulders. The sounds coming out of her are getting louder, rawer, and they drag me closer to the edge far faster than I want.

The pressure builds low in my groin, sharp and immediate. I stop myself as I pull out of her. She makes a frustrated sound, and I cut it off with my mouth. I hook the waistband of her skirt and drag it down her legs, and it lands on the floor. Then I lift her.

She wraps herself around me as I carry her across the room and lay her back on the sofa.

I pull her blouse open. A button snaps loose and skitters across the floor. Her bra is already shoved low, her breasts spilling free, and her pussy is already dripping and ready for me to finish.

I spread her thighs and kneel between them. For one second, I simply look at her. Flushed. Open. Waiting for me.

I grip my cock and drive into her in one stroke. Her back arches off the cushions. Her nails rake down my back, through the thin cotton of my shirt, and the sting pushes me harder. I brace one hand on the arm of the sofa and pound into her, deep and punishing. She wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me in.

"Don't stop," she gasps, as she tightens around me.

Her thighs start to shake. Then she comes, loud enough that the sound fills the entire library, her body clamping down on me, her nails digging into my back.

That sound finishes me. I drive into her once more and hold there as deep as I can go. My whole body tightens, and a groan tears from my chest as I spill inside her, hot and pulsing, her walls pulling every last drop out of me.

For several moments after we stop moving, neither of us says anything. Blaire is stretched across the sofa beneath me, breathing hard, her blouse hanging open where I pulled it apart and her hair spread in dark waves against the cushion. Her skirt is somewhere on the floor, discarded without thought when I dragged it down her legs.

Her thighs remain open. I straighten slowly, still breathing harder than I want to admit, and my attention drops before I can stop it. She is flushed everywhere I can see, her skin warm and damp, and my cum is dripping out of her. Nothing about the sight restores my control. If anything, watching her lying there makes my cock throb again, before my body has had any reasonable time to recover.

Blaire catches me looking but she doesn’t close her legs. That almost undoes me more than anything else. Her eyes stay fixed on mine while I pull my trousers back into place and fasten them. I move slowly, partly because my breathing has not settled and partly because I have no desire to rush the moment into something ordinary.

I just had her, and I already want to put my hands on her again. The thought is unreasonable enough that I force myself to look away and find her clothes instead.

Her panties are lying over near the end of the table, crumpled where they landed. I cross the room, pick it up, and shake them loose before carrying them back to her.

“Here,” I say.

Blaire takes them from me, and her fingers brush mine.

“Thank you.”

Her voice is slightly rough, and the sound hits me harder than it should.

She pulls her skirt over her lap without immediately putting it back on, then begins fastening the front of her blouse with hands that are steadier than mine feel. There is no embarrassment in the way she moves and no attempt to hide from me. She looks thoroughly disheveled and entirely aware of it.

I sit beside her once she has covered herself, leaving only a small space between us.

For a minute, neither of us says anything. Our breathing gradually settles while the library returns around us—the low lamps, the dark windows, the abandoned files we swept aside without caring where they landed.