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The words vibrate against my clit, and I nearly come apart right there. His mouth seals tighter, sucking, tongue flicking, clumsy and frantic but so eager it doesn’t matter. My hips jerk up against him, grinding hard into his face.

Then his fingers shove inside me—two at once, rough and unsteady but curling just right. The stretch punches a cry out of my throat, and I claw at the cushions, grinding down against his mouth while he fucks me open with his hand.

The wet sounds fill the room, obscene, his mouth messy with spit and slick, his groans muffled into my pussy. My thighs lock around his head, pinning him there, and he doesn’t even flinch—just drives his fingers harder, tongue circling and circling until the pressure inside me snaps.

The orgasm rips through me, violent and hot, tearing me open with a shout I can’t hold back. My whole body seizes, clenching around his fingers as his tongue drags me through it, sucking and lapping.

He doesn’t stop. Not when I jolt, not when I whimper. His mouth stays sealed to me, desperate, drinking me down.

My legs twitch, overstimulated, shoving at his ears. “Enough,” I gasp, but he only groans into me, tongue pressing harder, sucking like he can drag another orgasm out of me by force.

I snarl under my breath, fist tangling in his hair. With one hard yank, I drag his face up. His lips are slick, chin wet, eyes wild and glassy, chest heaving. "Stop,” I bite out, holding him there until he freezes.

“But—” His voice cracks, still trembling.

“No buts.” My thumb drags slow over his mouth, smearing the mess across his flushed cheek, making his breath hitch.

“Look at you,” I murmur, leaning back into the cushions, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Shaking like you fought a war. And you still want more.”

His throat works, words stumbling out in pieces. “I—I wanted to make it up to you. For… for before, for—” He breaks off, shaking his head hard. “Christ, Sable, you’re so fucking beautiful it hurts. I could make you come a hundred times, and it still wouldn’t be enough. I’d still want more. I’ll always want more.”

My chest tightens, my thighs still twitching with aftershocks, and for a moment I can’t decide if I want to laugh, kiss him, or shove him back down and let him prove it.

Instead, I reach for him, fingers curling into his shirt, tugging until he clambers up awkwardly from the floor and collapses onto the couch beside me.

“Here,” I murmur, sliding a hand up into his hair and guiding his head down onto my chest. He resists for half a second—nerves, always nerves—but then he melts, cheek pressing against me with a sigh.

My fingers stroke through his hair, slow and steady, and I feel the tension bleed out of him in shivers. “You did good, Noah,” I whisper into the crown of his head softly. “So damn good for me.”

Chapter 12

Noah

Ihaven’t slept. Not last night. Not the one before. Not the one before that. One whole week, and my body’s fried, but my head won’t stop. How could it, when every evening’s turned into the same loop—me at her door, her pulling me in, no preamble, no hesitation, just a sharp tug on my hair until I’m on my knees.

And then it’s hours. Hours with my face buried between her thighs, her wetness on my mouth, my tongue working until she’s thrashing, until she’s cursing me out with moans, until she’s clutching my head so tight I swear she’s going to scalp me. Every gasp, every shudder, every time she jerks against my tongue and breaks. I fucking live for it.

When it’s done, she doesn’t shove me off or laugh me out the door. She keeps me there, sprawled across her stomach, while her fingers rake lazily through my hair and down my back, sinking into me with soft words I can’t stop replaying. “Good boy. That’s good. You did so good for me.”

By the time I finally drag myself up, I’m wrecked. Stumbling into my apartment half-dizzy on her taste, cock aching, nerves fried, too wired to sleep and too far gone to care.

It’s killing me. I’m strung out, exhausted, fuzzy, drunk on her, and still—I can’t stop.

“Noah.”

My neck snaps up. Clipboard. Pencil. Marla. Shit. She’s planted herself right on the threshold of my office, glasses low on her nose, watching me like she’s caught me red-handed smuggling cocaine into the office.

“You’re looking rather chipper for a Monday morning,” she says, tapping the pencil against her clipboard. “Should I assume you’ve already run through this month's projections?”

Chipper. If she knew the reason I was grinning at my desk, she’d send me straight to HR with a bow on top.

I clear my throat, sitting up straighter, flipping the nearest file open like I’ve been buried in projections all along. “Yeah—yes. I mean, I’ve been through them. Twice.”

Her brow lifts over the rim of her glasses. “Good,” she says, drawing the word out, pencil scratching across her notes. “Because deadlines are crawling up our asses and I don’t want anyone slacking off.”

“No slacking,” I blurt, shaking my head. “Absolutely not. Slack-free since day one.”

“Conference room in ten,” she says, snapping her clipboard shut. “Entire account team will be there for full rundowns on active campaigns. Don’t be late.”