Now he used his teeth, left her breathless and churning on that erotic edge just this side of pain. She wrapped her legs around him, holding him hard and tight against her, rocking, rocking against the hand driving her mad.
“Inside me. You should be inside me.”
“Not yet, no. I’ve more than that,” he reminded her and caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Light pinches, relentless friction drove her straight over the edge.
Her legs tightened around him like a vise as she came, but he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.
Even as she moaned out her release, he shot her up again.
Her own breath burned her lungs as she stumbled along that edgy, dangerous line of pleasure. She dragged at his suit jacket with hands that trembled with outrageous needs.
“Take it off, take it off.”
Desperate, she tore at his shirt, sent buttons flying. Then at last her hands found skin. Hot, firm, hers. Now her arms wrapped around him, her fingers digging into flesh, her nails scraping, biting.
“Now. God. Now.”
But he said, “More,” and sent her flying.
Something thudded to the floor when he pushed her back on the desk. Her flailing hands sent disc files tumbling.
Then he was feasting on her breasts even as his hands drew the cotton pants over her hips. She struggled to reach his belt, to unhook it, to find him. To take him.
He left her quivering to glide his tongue down her body, to take it over her, into her.
The world was heat and glory, and needs newly incited the moment they were met, hungers keenly sharpened the instant they were sated.
She gripped his hips, said his name, only his name, saw his eyes, a wild and wicked blue with what they made each other.
And at last, at last, he plunged into her. Hard and fast, whipping them both past all borders of control. She met him madness for madness, greed for greed until the world dropped away.
She wondered her heart didn’t break through her ribs. Its crazed beat rang in her ears as aftershocks—for that had been an earthquake of sex—shook her body.
They sprawled over the desk like barely conscious survivors of a cataclysm, and she gave a passing thought to the desk.
How bad could it be if it could support all that weight?
“I might be lying on murder files. That’s just not right. It’s so disrespectful.”
“You’re not.” His face was buried between her breasts. “They fell over. Maybe off. We’ll sort it out. Christ Jesus, I can’t find my breath.”
“If you do, see if mine’s with it.”
He lifted his head, looked at her with eyes that managed to be wild and wicked, and a bit sleepy all at once. And she managed to lift her hand and brush the hair back from his face.
“So . . . was that all you’ve got?”
How, given their position and current state, he got his hand under her to pinch her ass—hard enough to make her yelp—was a wonder.
“Just asking. I may have seen God. She may have been smiling.”
“Well, she made us to fit together, didn’t she?”
“We do.”
“So we do.” He laid a kiss between her breasts, winced a little as he eased back to stand. “I believe it did hurt a little.”
She laughed, then hissed as she sat up. “Yeah, maybe. We did knock over murder files,” she noted. “And the coffeepot—but that was empty. Mostly. Can’t you wear less clothes? I ripped the shirt—the buttons off anyway. It probably cost more than the damn desk.”