His hand tightened in my hair, a gentle but insistent tug that tilted my head back until I was looking up at him. The city lights caught the edge of his jaw, the dark beard, the way his eyes had gone nearly black with wanting.

"On your knees"

Not a question. Not a request. That low rumble left no room for argument, and I didn't want any. I slid off the desk, the polished wood cool against my overheated skin, and let my knees meet the scattered papers on the floor. The carpet was rough beneath them, the papers crinkling, and I looked up at him from the ground, my mouth already watering.

His hand stayed in my hair, guiding me forward, and I reached for him. My fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, feeling the weight of him, the heat, the proof that he wasn't done with me yet. He was thick in my hand, the skin velvet over steel, and I watched a bead of precum gather at the tip.

"You're going to make me watch you beg for it first?" he asked, his voice rough, his thumb stroking the curve of my skull.

I shook my head, a small, breathy laugh escaping me. "I don't beg."

"No?" His hand tightened, tilting my head back further. "Then show me what you do."

I leaned in, my tongue flat against the underside of his cock, tracing the vein that pulsed there. His breath hitched, a sound I felt in my own chest, and I let my lips close around the head, tasting him, salt and skin and something darker. I took him deeper, inch by inch, my hand working the base as my mouth found its rhythm.

"Fuck," he breathed, his hips pressing forward just slightly, testing. "That feels amazing."

The words went straight through me, settling somewhere low and hot. I looked up at him as I sucked, my eyes watering, my lips stretched around him, and I saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand in my hair trembled just a little. He was holding back, letting me set the pace, and that restraint made it better.

I took him deeper, my throat opening, my nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. I heard myself moan around him, the vibration making him shudder, and his hand tightened in my hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me who was in control.

"Look at you," he said, his voice wrecked. "On your knees for me. Taking me like you were made for it."

I pulled back, just enough to breathe, my lips slick, my chin wet. "I was," I said, and I meant it. "Made for this."

His eyes darkened, and he pulled me up, my body sliding against his until my mouth met his, and I tasted myself and him together, a mix that was filthy and perfect. His hands found my hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he walked me backward until my thighs hit the edge of the desk again.

"Turn around," he said, and I did, my palms flat on the polished wood, my ass pressed against him. I heard the crinkle of paper beneath my hands, felt the cool air on my wet skin, and then his hand was between my legs, fingers sliding through my slick folds.

"So fucking wet," he murmured, and I felt his cock nudge against me, the head slick with my arousal and his own. "You want this, don't you?"

"Yes," I breathed, and I didn't care how desperate I sounded. "Please."

He pushed inside me, slow, inch by inch, and I felt every fraction of the stretch, the way my body opened for him, the way he filled me until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began. His hands gripped my hips, holding me still, and he stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting me feel the weight of him.

"Look at the window," he said, his voice low in my ear, and I did. The city lights burned beyond the glass, a thousand windows, a thousand lives, and I saw our reflection, ghostly and indistinct, me bent over the desk, him behind me, his hand moving to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there.

"They could see us," he said, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "If they looked up. If they were watching."

I moaned, my hips pressing back against him, and he responded with a thrust that knocked the breath out of me, hard and deep, the desk scraping against the floor. His hand stayed on my throat, a grounding pressure, and he set a rhythm, punishing and perfect, each stroke hitting that spot inside me that made my vision blur.

"You like that, don't you?" he said, his voice barely a growl. "The idea of them watching. Of them knowing what a good girl you are for me."

"Yes," I gasped, my fingers curling against the papers, my whole body trembling. "Fuck, yes."

He drove into me, harder, faster, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, and I felt the pressure building, coiling low in my belly, my thighs shaking. His hand left my throat and found my hair again, pulling my head back, and I arched into him, taking him deeper.

"Come for me," he said, and it wasn't a request. "Come on my cock, Show me."

And I did. My body clenched around him, waves of pleasure crashing through me, and I heard myself cry out, his name or a prayer or both, as he followed me, his hips slamming into mine, his hand fisting in my hair as he came with a groan that sounded like my name.

We stayed like that, tangled and trembling, the city lights burning beyond the window, and I felt the weight of the moment settle over us. He pulled out slowly, and I felt the heat of him leaking down my thigh, a claim I couldn't deny.

He pulled me into his arms, my back against his chest, his chin resting on my shoulder, and I felt his heart pounding against my spine. The city lights flickered beyond the window, and I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that this wasn't over. It was just beginning.

His arms loosened, just enough, and I felt the shift in his body—the weight of the night settling into his bones. He turned me gently, his hands finding my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots that had formed there without me noticing.

"Bed," he said, and it wasn't a question. It was a promise.

I let him lead me, my legs still unsteady, the carpet soft under my bare feet. The bed loomed ahead, white sheets turned down, and he guided me until my knees hit the edge. I fell forward onto my elbows, the fabric cool against my overheated skin, and I felt his hands on the zipper of my dress, slow, deliberate.

The emerald fabric pooled around my waist, then slid away entirely, leaving me naked on the crisp white sheets. The lamp by the bed cast a warm glow across my skin, and I heard him exhale, a low sound that made my toes curl.

"Roll over," he said, and I did, my cheek pressing into the pillow, my arms stretched above my head. The sheets smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something else—him, that scent I'd come to know in the dark.

His hands found my shoulders again, rough palms gliding over my skin. He worked the muscles there with a contractor's patience, finding every knot, every place I'd been holding tension for weeks, and I felt my body surrender inch by inch.

"You're tight," he murmured, his thumbs tracing the line of my spine. "Been carrying something heavy."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. His hands moved lower, over my shoulder blades, down the curve of my back, and I made a sound I didn't recognize—a low, keening moan that vibrated against the mattress.

He poured oil into his palms, the scent of something warm and herbal filling the air, and when his hands returned to my skin they were slick, gliding. He worked my lower back, his thumbs pressing circles into the muscles there, and I felt the tension drain out of me like water through a sieve.

"You're going to kill me with those hands," I breathed, my voice muffled by the pillow.

He laughed, low and rough, and his hands slid lower, over the swell of my ass, squeezing gently before moving on. "Not yet," he said. "I'm not done with you."

His fingers traced the backs of my thighs, and I spread my legs slightly without thinking, an invitation I couldn't have stopped if I'd wanted to. He took it, his hands sliding up my inner thighs, his thumbs brushing the slick heat between my legs.

"Already wet again," he observed, his voice thick with approval.

I pressed my hips back against his hands, and he responded by sliding two fingers through my folds, collecting the wetness there, spreading it over my clit in slow, deliberate circles. A shudder ran through me, my fingers curling into the sheets.

"I thought this was a massage," I managed, my voice cracking.

"It is," he said, his fingers still moving, slow and teasing. "I'm just making sure I cover every inch."

He pushed one finger inside me, then two, curling against that spot that made my vision blur. My hips rocked against his hand, my mouth open against the pillow, and I heard myself beg—a broken, breathless sound that I'd never made before.

"Please," I gasped. "Brian, please."

He withdrew his fingers, and I whimpered at the loss. But then he was turning me over, his body covering mine, his cock pressing against my slick entrance. He looked down at me, his eyes dark, his jaw set.

"I want to watch you," he said, and he pushed inside me, slow, filling me inch by inch until I felt him deep, a fullness that stole my breath. "I want to watch you come apart for me."