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It almost feels like there’s a third presence in this room, and I recognize it for what it is: the palpable, helpless attraction that hangs between us. If either of us ever really and truly believed that we could work together and ignore it, then we were fools. There is no ignoring this. This is real. And how often does something this genuine ever happen?
“You’d better get out of here,” Declan rasps at last, like he can clear whatever this is if I just get the hell home.
“Kicking me out already?” I breathe. “Had enough?”
“Never,” he growls. “All I want is to bend you over that desk and fuck you senseless. So if you have any sense, you’ll go home right now.”
Oh, god. Heat curls through me, my clit throbbing like a heartbeat. I’m wet. Wet enough to probably leave a print on the leather if I stand up. I clench my thighs together.
“And what are you going to do for the rest of the night if I go?” I ask, my voice strained. “And leave you like this?”
“Probably sit here and jerk off thinking about what could’ve been.”
My pussy clenches. Fucking hell, the mouth on this man.
I want Declan so damn much. But I also want this to work. This job. My promise to be able to handle this. And if one of us needs to be strong for the both of us, well, maybe I can be that person.
As much as it hurts. As much as it aches.
Because that desk? It’s looking really, really tempting right now.
I stand up, and for a terrible, teetering moment, I imagine throwing myself across it. Flipping my dress up. Spreading my legs and letting him take whatever he wants. I want that. I want it so bad that I can taste it. It tastes like fire.
“Thanks for letting me in,” I tell him, and turn abruptly to flee. Because that’s what this is. I’m running away. Saving us both by being a coward.
He doesn’t follow, and I’m glad for it. Glad for it and hate it at the same time. The moment has passed, and maybe we’ll both leave it be.
But the night air doesn’t cool me. The subway’s rocking and vibrations and my damp panties only remind me what could’ve been. And when I finally get back to my apartment, I realize this is nowhere near done, leaving a trail of my clothes across the room on my way to my bed.
He’s thinking about me. I know he is. He told me exactly what he’d be doing, sitting in that same chair, staring at the space I vacated, hand buried in his pants, wrapped around his cock, stroking himself.
The sheets are too hot. Everything. All I can do is try to get on the other side of this. The cause is the only cure.
I slip my hand between my legs and, trembling, trace the shape of myself. I’m so wet. I test it, sliding a finger in. No resistance. Endlessly ready. But my clit is begging for my attention, and my own arousal slicks my fingers’ path, rubbing. Teasing.
Like Declan would have. If only I had stayed.
Where would we have started? The chair. The taste of whiskey on his lips. I’d straddle him, no choice as he dragged me from my seat and into his lap, crushing our kisses. It would be a culmination a year in the making. Full circle from San Francisco.
Only it would actually be Declan’s name on my lips as I screamed and came apart.
He’d be sure of making me come before we left that chair. His fingers beneath the hem of my dress, rubbing me through my panties. Or deep inside me, taking what was his. Or maybe he’d make me take care of it myself, riding his knee.
Fuck. I toss my head, tangling my hair against my pillow, working my hand harder against my clit.
Declan wouldn’t have given me any time at all to recover. After I came the first time, he’d be ready for the second, lifting me and positioning me over his desk, my stomach against the dark wood, my ass in the air. Ripe for the taking.
He’d rip my panties off, taking full ownership of what he found. Palming me. Parting. Exploring. Taking. And providing me with a running commentary of filthy talk the entire time.
Groping me.
This ass is mine. Tell me that it’s mine.
Fingering me.
Look how fucking wet you are for me.
Fucking me.
