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"Everything. Clothes off, all of it. Then bend down over my table and spread those perfect legs and ass for me."

She holds my eyes while she strips, because she's who she is—even obeying me has to look like her idea. The pants drop. The underwear follows. She stands naked in the middle of the boardroom, flushed down to her tits, lips still swollen from my cock, and she's smirking at me.

Then she bends down over the table as I say, her torso right next to where her bare feet were just a while ago. Elbows on table, back arched, thighs apart, pussy wet and swollen and on display, looking back at me over her shoulder like she's daring me to take her slow. Not going to happen—I nearly come untouched, like a fifteen-year-old.

She starts to slip her hand underneath her body to reach between her legs.

"No." I catch her wrist and pin it to the small of her back. "That's mine to feast on. No more touching yourself without my permission."

"I can't wait, Laszlo. I want you. Fuck me now."

"Not yet, ma macabre." I drag my palm down her spine, slow, and feel her shake under it. "The last time I had my mouth on you, I stopped five times and left you shaking in your parents’ bathroom. You'd earned it—you broke into my mortuary, vanished for a day, and made me think you were dead." I press a kiss to the base of her spine and she whimpers.

"You said—" she's panting, forehead against the wood, "—you said the next time I came, it would be on the plot. Saint-Améline."

Of course she remembers. She remembers everything, my terrible wife. She thinks she’s one-upped me.

"I know what I said." I pull her hips a little off the edge of the table and push her legs wider. "Consider the contract amended. Saint-Améline still gets its turn. That promise doesn't expire. But today, you come where every man on this floor can hear exactly who does it to you."

I crouch down on one knee as if about to ask her pussy to marry me again, then spread her ass cheeks and bury my face between her legs from behind.

The sound that tears out of her isn't a gasp. It's a moan so loud she slaps her hand over her mouth. She's soaked, juices dripping down her thighs from sucking my cock and hearing about a horrible death. I lick her open in one long stroke, slow and flat, and her knees nearly go out. I grip her thighs apart and hold her exactly where I want her, proceeding to eat my wife like the starving man I have been for years. Tongue inside her. Two fingers inside her, curling, while I suck and lick on her. She's writhing, trying to close her legs around my head, trying to ride my face and get away from it at the same time, but I allow neither.

"Laszlo … oh God! They'll hear everything…"

I lift my mouth just enough to answer. "Good. Scream. I want every man on this floor to know what I'm doing to you. I want them to fly home and tell people what they heard." I slap her clit lightly and she jolts like a live wire. "Now stop being polite and come on my tongue. You owe me this and I am done waiting."

I swivel my body and pull her away from the table, then slide my head between her legs and force her to sit on my face. I seal my mouth over her clit and suck hard, fingers driving into her, and I know the exact moment she breaks. Her thighs clamp around my head and she pours over my tongue, screaming. She comes so beautifully, pulling at my hair, my name on her lips. My wife is loud; the moans and screams go on and on, and to anyone outside this room she must sound like she's being tortured. That sound is going to be engraved on my mind forever. I don't stop, not even when her thighs are shaking and she's begging me to. It's a very good orgasm, and I'm proud of myself. I work her through every last shudder, drunk on the taste I can’t get enough of.

She's still shaking as I come up for air while holding her up on her feet. Her upper body goes limp against the wood. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I stand and position her in front of me. I line my bare cock up against her perfect, dripping pussy. She's still panting, but I need to be inside her.

"Nothing between us." I drag the head inside her, coating myself in her orgasm. "Never with you. I want you dripping for me for the rest of the day. Tell me you understand."

"Yes… Laszlo, please…"

"My wife. Begging. I like it." I grab her hair. "I was beginning to think it was a lost cause."

And I push into her in one long, brutal stroke.

She's scalding and swollen and still fluttering from her orgasm, but takes all of me with a sound that goes straight through the wall. I don't give her even a moment to adjust. Pulling her head back by the hair, I fuck her the way I've wanted to since she walked into my life demanding her idiot brother back—passionately, deeply, viciously. Her chest slides against the table with every stroke. There's nothing vanilla left in me; there never was. Manon was never going to want it gentle, and God knows we should have started doing this months ago.

"You want to know what you feel like?" I bend over her back, mouth at her ear, hips never slowing. "You grip me the way a man grips a blade when it goes in. Desperate. Like your body knows exactly what I am and wants it deeper anyway." She moans, clenching hard around me, and I laugh, breathless, hers. "There it is. My little wiedźmo. You get tighter every time I say something that should send you running."

"More," she gasps. "Tell me more."

"I got blood out of this shirt cuff last month," I tell her, driving in harder, "and my first thought was that the stain was the exact color of your mouth." Another stroke. And another. Her nails scratch the walnut. A folder drops to the carpet. "When you barged into my meeting demanding to know more about a murder, in front of my captains… Manon, I have never wanted anyone the way I wanted you in that moment. You are the single most frightening thing I have ever let into my life. And you're mine."

"Yours … hmmmm harder…"

I give it to her exactly as she wants it, hard and fast. I give her everything, seven years of it, hauling her back onto me by the hair while my other hand reaches around and finds her clit. She's screaming again; this time probably the whole street can hear her, and I hope they're taking notes.

"Again," I order, rubbing her clit in tight, merciless circles. "Come on my cock this time. Milk me, ma macabre, and I'll give you everything I've got—every drop, deep inside you, where it belongs. That's an order."

And for once in her contrary, magnificent life, Manon Novak does exactly as she's told.

She clamps down on me so hard I see stars, a white glow screaming my name, and it rips my own finish out of me like that blade finally coming loose. I bury myself inside her and come, flooding her, sinking my teeth into her shoulder, growling something into her skin that might be her name or a threat or both.

We collapse flat on the table, my chest to her back, both of us drained, her heart slamming through her ribs against mine.