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God…the sin. It’s mine, not hers, but in this moment, I don’t give a fuck.

I kiss her.

Not gently.

Not the way I should kiss a woman who has spent the evening trapped beside Quenton Stanley and his greasy hands and vile comments.

I kiss her like I’m still seeing red.

Like I can take every ugly thing that disgusting man said to her and burn it out of her with my mouth.

Like I can make her forget.

Like I can make myself forget.

I walk forward, pushing her back against the wall, still devouring her mouth.

She doesn’t push me away. Instead, she kisses me back, and my God…

It ruins me.

Completely.

She grips my lapels, pulls me closer.

And I snap.

I’ll have her. I’ll have her here. Now. All of her.

The office is dark except for the thin spill of light beneath the door. In the ballroom, the gala continues.

In here, there is only Ella.

Her mouth. Her breath. The delicate quiver of her body against mine. The silver dress beneath my hands.

I should stop.

But I won’t.

I turn us, guiding her away from the wall and toward the wooden desk. When her thighs meet it, I lift her slightly so she’s sitting on the edge.

I kiss her again, sliding my tongue from her lips to her creamy neck. I inhale her fresh fragrance, rain kisses over her satin skin.

She blinks up at me in the dark, lips parted, eyes wide. “Nathaniel,” she whispers.

God, my name from her lips.

I brace one hand on the desk beside her, the other still at her waist. “I want to suck your nipples, Ella. Suck them raw.”

She gasps but says nothing.

I lower my head, find one beneath the fabric of the dress, and bite. Hard.

“Oh!” Another gasp.

I pinch the other between my fingers, wishing the fabric would dissolve.

“I don’t know what this is,” she says on a breath.