Page 178 of Lorenzo

“And yet you are considering it.”

“You're not a client. Yet.”

He leans down, bracing his hands on the arms of my chair, trapping me.

“That’s right. I’m not,” he says, his voice deepening. “So you shouldn’t have any qualms about what we’re about to do.”

His mouth lowers toward mine.

I meet him halfway.

Chapter Twenty Three

Lorenzo

Donna’s office isn't very big.

It smells like her—a hint of coffee and a warmer, more subtle scent I cannot name but recognize completely.

Her desk is neat but lived-in, with a stack of invoices, a pen beside her keyboard, and a coffee mug bearing the faded logo of some long-closed bakery.

It is probably nothing like the Bureau office she left behind.

Nothing like the one I have back at Conti Enterprises.

This place is perfectly hers. Small, unassuming, and entirely hers.

And I am about to fuck her on her desk.

Donna’s hands are already on my chest, her fingers digging into my shirt as I kiss her. Her tongue meets mine, her body arching up into mine. She is kissing me like she has been thinking about this as much as I have.

Her lips part, and I deepen the kiss, swallowing her gasp as my hands move down her sides to her hips, pulling her out of the chair.

She comes willingly, her body molding to mine as I lift her onto the desk.

“Lorenzo,” she breathes against my mouth.

“That’s right,” I murmur, my hands already moving up her thighs toward the zipper of her jeans. “Say my name again.”

“Lorenzo,” she says again, a little louder this time as I unfasten the button on her jeans. Her hands tangle in my hair, her legs wrapping around my waist.

I drag my lips down her neck, nipping at her skin as I slide my hand into the front of her jeans and panties. She is already wet for me, her hips bucking against my hand as I find her clit and rub.

She moans, her head falling back.

I smile against her skin, then slip one finger inside her.

“Lorenzo,” she gasps.

“I love it when you say my name like that,” I growl, adding a second finger and curving them just so.

She cries out, her body tightening around my fingers. Her hands clutch my shoulders, her nails digging into my shirt.

I pump my fingers in and out of her, my movement restricted by her jeans but effective nonetheless. Her breathing grows ragged, her hips moving in time with my thrusts.

"More," she moans. "I need more."

She hooks the waist of her jeans and tries to wiggle them down.