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“You’ll survive.” She’s smiling when she says it, settling into my lap, knees braced on either side of my thighs, hands resting on my shoulders, weight not fully committed yet. She pulls back enough to look at me, hair falling forward. “Is this okay? I know today’s been. I know what today’s been.”

“Elena.” Just her name, and I watch it land, her breath catching slightly. “Yes.”

She kisses me again, slower this time, and I let my hands move down her sides to the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head. She shakes her hair loose after, and I get one second to look at her in the lamplight before reaching for her bra, getting it open, dropping it over the chair’s arm. Her chest rises fast, and I lean in, taking one nipple between my lips, working it with my tongue, and her hands fly into my hair, gripping, her spine arching to push closer.

“Okay,” she breathes. “That’s a good start. That’s an excellent start, keep doing exactly that.”

I switch sides, and her hips grind down on their own, no decision in it, just her body chasing the feeling, and I can feel the heat of her even through both layers still between us. My hands find her ass, pulling her in tighter, and she groans low, forehead dropping to the top of my head.

“You’re killing me with the bra thing alone,” she says, voice unsteady. “I’m filing a complaint about your competence levels.”

“Take it up with management.”

“You are management.”

“Then it’s noted and ignored.”

I get my hands at her waistband, and she lifts enough for me to drag her leggings down, half standing to get them and her underwear free, kicking them aside, nearly clipping the desk lamp on the way. Then she’s back in my lap, bare from the waist down, and I can feel the heat of her right through my pants.

“You’re staring,” she says.

“Tracking. Different thing.”

“That’s a distinction you invented to keep doing it.”

“Possibly.” I get a hand between us, and she’s slick, has been for a while, and I drag two fingers through her slow, feeling her hips press into the touch before she’s decided to let them. The sound she makes is sharp, involuntary, and her hands grip harder.

“Not fair,” she manages. “You barely move your hand, and my whole nervous system just gives up. There should be a warning label.”

“I’ll have one printed.”

“Please don’t, I don’t want this on paper.” But her hips are already rolling against my hand, chasing it, and I work her pussy like that, in slow circles, until she’s gripping my wrist, not to stop me, but just to have something to hold.

“Up,” I tell her, and she lifts enough for me to open my pants, and when my cock is free she looks down between us and exhales hard through her nose.

“Every time,” she mutters. “Every single time, like my body’s never seen it before and is shocked all over again.”

“Your body’s got good instincts.”

“My body’s an idiot, but go on.”

I lift her with one hand and guide myself into position with the other, the head of my cock pressed against her entrance, soaked already, and she lets out a short breath at just that, like the contact alone is enough to take something out of her.

She sinks down slow, taking me inch by inch, her whole body tightening around the stretch of it, nails biting into my shoulders hard enough I’ll feel it tomorrow. By the time she’s fully seated, her forehead’s against mine, and she’s breathing like she’s run somewhere.

“Okay,” she breathes. “There it is. Hello again.”

“Hello.”

“Don’t be charming right now. I’m adjusting to a life-altering amount of you, and you’re being charming; it’s very distracting.”

“My apologies.” I’m not sorry, and she hears it, laughing breathlessly, the sound trailing into a moan when she rolls her hips and finds the angle that stops both of us cold for a second.

She starts to move, slow, riding me with her hands braced on my shoulders, and I let her set the pace, my hands at her hips steadying rather than directing. The drag of her, tight and slick, gripping with every roll, has my jaw locked, and I watch her face, her eyes going heavy, her mouth falling open on a breath she doesn’t finish. Her hips find a rhythm and lose it and find it again, small adjustments she’s making without seeming to know she’s making them, like her body’s still working out the angle that fits best and reporting back in real time. Every few rolls, she catches herself doing it, and her eyes flick to mine, checking, and every time she finds me already watching.

“Stop doing that,” she breathes, not stopping.

“Doing what?”