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"You can do that?"

"I own the footage. I own the cameras. I own the server they record to." I kiss the spot just below her ear find her ear. She gasps and grabs my belt for balance and I say, into her skin, "I'll handle it. Anna, may I please wipe the security footage?"

"God, you're an idiot." She's laughing, breathless, pulling at my belt now. "What about Theo? Doesn't he monitor—"

"Theo won't look. Theo has seen the feed flag motion after hours twice in four years and both times he called me instead of opening it. The man is a vault." I catch her chin. Make her look at me. "Anna. Is this a yes?"

Her eyes are dark. Her hair is wrecked. She's got my belt open and a smile starting at one corner of her mouth.

"Bend me over the table, Danny."

My brain whites out.

I turn her fast, hands gripping her hips, and walk her forward until her thighs hit the edge. She plants her palms on the dark wood, arching that perfect spine, looking back at me over her shoulder with pure, filthy hunger in her eyes. That look is going to be burned into my memory until I die.

I yank her jeans and underwear down in one rough motion. She steps out of them gracefully, kicking them aside, and widens her stance for me. I press my hand between her shoulder blades and guide her down until her chest meets the cool wood, ass tilted up, completely exposed. My other hand slides down her back, over the curve of her ass, between her thighs—and fuck, she’s drenched. Soaking wet, slick coating my fingers as I stroke her.

“This whole time?” I growl, voice rough. “During the entire conversation?”

“Since you said you were in love with me.” Her breath catches. “Maybe since the gargoyle thing. Don’t let it go to your—”

I push two fingers deep inside her without warning. Her words cut off into a sharp moan. She drops to her forearms on the table, pushing back greedily against my hand as I fuck her with slow, deliberate strokes, curling my fingers against that spot that makes her tremble.

When she starts rocking harder, desperate for more, I pull my fingers out. She whimpers in protest, the sound echoing through the empty club.

I free my cock, thick and aching, and line up at her entrance. One hand on her hip, the other braced on the table beside hers, I thrust into her in one deep stroke—burying myself to the hilt in her tight, scorching heat.

We both groan. She’s impossibly wet and tight, clenching around me like she was made for this. I have to freeze for a second, forehead pressed to her back, breathing hard through the overwhelming pleasure so I don’t lose control too soon.

“Move, Danny,” she begs, voice wrecked. “Please fuck me.”

I move.

Slow and deep at first, then harder, faster. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the club, mixed with her gasping moans and the rhythmic creak of the table. She reaches back, grabbing my wrist where it grips her hip, anchoring herself as I drive into her.

“Harder,” she demands.

I give it to her. I slam into her deeper, hips snapping, the table legs scraping against the marble floor. She drops her forehead to the wood, moaning my name like a prayer.

I lean over her, chest pressed to her back, mouth at her ear. “Look up.”

She lifts her head, dazed. Across the room, the Whiskey Wall glows in the amber light—rows of crystal decanters catching every flicker.

“Next week,” I rasp, punctuating every thrust, “your name’s going to be up there. And every single person who walks in here will see it and know exactly—” I drive in hard, grinding deep, “—what you are to me.”

“Danny—”

“Mine. On the wall. In the light. No headline will ever matter more than that.”

She comes apart with a broken cry, body seizing, pussy clenching around my cock in pulsing waves so tight it drags me over the edge with her. I bury myself as deep as I can go and come hard, groaning her name into the back of her neck, spilling inside her while her sweater is still pushed up around her shoulders.

We stay locked together, bent over the table, breathing ragged in the quiet hum of the club.

Eventually she speaks, voice muffled and amused against the wood.

“Your whiskey survived.”

I glance over. The Yamazaki sits untouched on the next table, smug as ever.