The polished oak was cool and unforgiving against her back. He lifted her onto it, scattering her carefully arranged pens, his hands firm on her hips. The seminar room, their battlefield of quiet glances, became a chapel of raw sound—her gasp, his low growl, the slide of wool and cotton.
Her legs dangled over the edge, her sensible flats knocking against the table leg. The harsh afternoon light cut across them, exposing everything: the flush on her neck, the tremor in her thighs, the way her fingers still clutched the fabric of his blazer as if he were the only solid thing in a tilting world.
Marcus didn’t kiss her again. He stood between her parted knees, his storm-gray eyes holding hers. His thumbs pressed into the hollows of her hips, a steady, claiming pressure through the thin cotton of her shirt. She felt the hard line of him against her inner thigh, a blunt, undeniable truth.
“You left the window open,” he said, his voice a low baritone that vibrated in the sunlit air between them.
Sophia shook her head, a weak denial that died before it reached her lips. She had. She’d looked back. She’d held his gaze on the stairwell and let him see her see him. An invitation. Her chest tightened, a cage of ribs around a frantic, beating thing.
One of his hands left her hip. It came up, slow, and his knuckles brushed the line of her jaw. A touch so light it was a question. Her breath hitched—a sharp, audible intake. The sound seemed to decide something for him.
His fingers slid into the hair at the nape of her neck, loosening the tight band of her ponytail. Dark strands fell around her shoulders. The sensation was a violation of her morning ritual, a dismantling. She felt exposed. More than when his tongue was in her mouth.
“Say it,” he murmured. His other hand moved from her hip, tracing a path up her side, over her ribcage. His palm was hot through the cotton.
She couldn’t. The words were a dammed river behind her teeth. Her body answered instead, arching slightly into his touch, a silent, traitorous confession. The cool wood was a shock against her spine; the heat of him was a brand against her front.
His hand stopped just beneath the curve of her breast. He watched her face, patient, calculating. Waiting for the fracture to complete. The slide of his thumb along the lower edge of her bra was deliberate, a preview. Her nipple tightened, a sharp ache against the lace.
Sophia closed her eyes. The light went red behind her lids. She felt his breath on her mouth, a shared space. He didn’t close it.
“Open your eyes.”
She did. His gaze was a trap. In it, she saw the end of her resistance, the inevitable shape of her surrender. It was already over. He had just been waiting for her to catch up.
“I want you.”
The words left her mouth quiet, frayed at the edges. A confession exhaled into the shared breath between their lips.
Marcus didn’t move. His storm-gray eyes held hers, absorbing the sound, the shape of it. His thumb still rested against the lace of her bra. “Again.”
She swallowed. The cage of her ribs felt too small. “I want you.”
This time it was clearer. A statement. A surrender.
A slow, deliberate smile touched his mouth. It wasn’t kind. It was a victory acknowledged. His hand slid fully over her breast, his palm hot and heavy through the cotton. He squeezed, just once, a firm, testing pressure that made her back arch off the cool wood. A low sound escaped her throat.
“Show me,” he murmured.
His free hand went to the buttons of her shirt. He worked them open with a focused, methodical precision, not tearing, not rushing. Each pop of a button through its hole was a loud punctuation in the silent room. The harsh light fell on her skin as the fabric parted—her stomach, the plain black bra, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
He pushed the shirt off her shoulders. It caught at her elbows, pinning her arms slightly back. Helpless. Exposed. The air was warm but her skin pebbled everywhere his eyes touched.
Marcus leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re soaked.” His voice was a dark scrape. “I can feel the heat through your jeans.”
She was. A slick, aching truth between her legs. Her thighs trembled where they bracketed his hips.
He kissed the hinge of her jaw, then lower, down the column of her throat. His teeth grazed her collarbone. His hand left her breast, trailed down her quivering stomach, and settled at the button of her jeans. He paused there, his fingers resting over the denim, directly over the pulsing core of her.
Sophia held her breath. The world narrowed to that point of contact—the pressure of his hand, the rough fabric, the unbearable, wet heat beneath.
He unbuttoned them. The zipper’s rasp was obscenely loud. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her jeans and her plain cotton underwear and peeled them down her hips in one slow, continuous motion. She lifted her hips off the table to help him, a mute, eager cooperation. The clothes tangled around her knees, a messy heap on the seminar room floor.
Marcus straightened. His gaze traveled down her body, leaving a trail of fire. She was spread open before him on the oak, completely bare from the waist down. The afternoon light didn’t forgive. It showed everything—the dark thatch of curls, the glistening evidence of her want, the violent blush across her chest and neck.
He placed a hand on the inside of each of her thighs. His palms were callused. He pushed, widening her stance further, opening her completely. A soft, broken noise escaped her lips.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice thick with something like reverence, like hunger. He kept one hand high on her thigh, holding her open. The other hand he brought to his mouth. He watched her as he sucked two fingers into his mouth, wetting them thoroughly.
He returned his hand to her. He didn’t touch her where she ached. He traced a slow, maddening path along the inside of her thigh, up to the crease of her hip, back down. Her entire body strained toward that touch, trembling.
“Please,” she whispered. It was the only word left.
“I know,” he said. Finally, he touched her. A single, blunt finger sliding through her slick folds, gathering the wetness, circling but not entering. The contact was electric, a shock of pure sensation that made her hips jerk off the table. His other hand on her thigh held her down, firm, unyielding.
He pressed the pad of his finger against her clit. A slow, circular pressure. Her head fell back, a choked gasp tearing from her throat. The pleasure was sharp, immediate, a direct line to every nerve ending. She was panting, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick wood.
He added a second finger, spreading her, sliding through the wetness with a soft, slick sound. He was watching her face, studying every flinch, every helpless sigh. His own breathing had deepened, the tailored wool of his trousers straining at the fly.
He pushed one finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. The stretch was exquisite, a fullness that made her cry out. He held it there, not moving, letting her feel the invasion, the perfect fit. Her inner muscles clenched around him, greedy.
“You take me so well,” he murmured, his voice rough. He pushed deeper, sinking his finger to the hilt. Sophia arched, a silent scream on her lips. He began to move, a slow, torturous rhythm, in and out, while his thumb kept up that relentless circle on her clit.
Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, a spring wound to breaking. Her thighs shook. The world dissolved into sensation—the cool wood, the heat of him, the building, unbearable pressure. She was close, so close, teetering on a precipice.
He stopped.
His fingers went still, buried inside her. The absence of motion was a worse torture. Her eyes flew open, desperate, pleading.
Marcus leaned over her, his body caging hers. His forehead touched hers. His breath was hot and fast. “Next time,” he promised, his voice a dark vow against her lips. “Next time, you come around my cock.”
He withdrew his fingers slowly. The emptiness was a shock. A sob caught in her chest.
He brought his wet fingers to his mouth, his eyes locked on hers, and sucked them clean. The sight was so profoundly possessive, so carnal, that something final shattered inside her.
He lowered her from the table, her legs buckling as her feet hit the floor. He held her up, his arms strong around her, while she trembled against the solid wall of his chest, naked and undone.