His hand slides into my hair, fisting tight the way he knows I like, and my body remembers before my brain can catch up.
I arch into him, responding on pure, treacherous instinct, my nails raking down his back through the fabric of his shirt.
His hand slides into my hair, fisting tight the way he knows I like. Pulling just hard enough to make my scalp tingle, tilting my head back so he can claim my throat.
I arch into him. Can't help it. Body responding on pure instinct.
My nails rake down his back through his shirt. Hard. Marking him the way I used to. Leaving evidence he'll feel tomorrow.
We're on the desk now. Contracts scattering to the floor in a cascade of paper. My laptop crashes somewhere. The sound barely registers.
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw. Down my throat with teeth and tongue. Finding my collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
Lower. Always lower.
"Maeve." My name against my skin is a prayer, an absolution. It sounds like coming home, and I hate how good it feels. I hate that my body responds like it's been starved for exactly this.
I hate how good it feels. Hate that my body responds like it's been starved for exactly this.
Three years of training. Of learning each other. Of knowing exactly where to touch, how hard, how slow to build the kind of pleasure that obliterates thought.
His hands know my body better than anyone's. Every sensitive spot, every place that makes me gasp.
The inside of my wrist. The curve where my neck meets my shoulder. That spot just below my ribs that makes me shiver.
His mouth finds all the places that make me lose my mind. Behind my ear. The hollow of my throat. Lower still, pushing fabric aside.
And fuck, I want this. Want to forget everything else. Want to lose myself in familiar heat, because familiar is all I have left of the girl I used to be.
We fuck like we're fighting. Hard. Desperate. Angry.
Like we can fix everything broken between us with rough hands and rougher words. Like sex can erase lies and betrayal.
His hands are everywhere—yanking my blouse open, buttons scattering across marble. The sound of them hitting the floor punctuates our breathing.
Shoving my skirt up my thighs. No finesse. No seduction. Just raw, desperate need.
I tear at his shirt, the expensive silk ripping under my fingers because I need to feel his skin.
His belt buckle clinks, my underwear tears, and the sound should make me stop, but it doesn't.
His fingers slide between my legs. Testing. Finding me ready.
"Fuck," he groans. "You're so—"
I cut him off with a kiss. Brutal. Silencing whatever pretty lie he's about to tell.
Then he's inside me and it feels like coming home and burning alive simultaneously. Familiar and devastating all at once.
I gasp against his mouth. Body remembering exactly how he feels, how he fits, how we move together like choreography we never forgot.
"God," he breathes. Voice wrecked. "Missed this. Missed you."
His rhythm is punishing. Desperate. Hips snapping forward, driving deeper with each thrust.
My legs wrap around his waist. Pulling him closer. Nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood through his torn shirt.
He shifts angle. Hits that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
"Yes." I'm already gone. Already falling. "Right there."
His hand slides between us. Finds that bundle of nerves. Circles with practiced precision.
The combination is devastating. His cock hitting exactly right, his fingers working magic, his mouth on my neck.
"Tell me you don't want this," he demands against my throat. Voice rough. Challenging.
I can't. Can't tell him anything except—
"Harder." Breathless. Shameless. "Don't stop."
He complies. Drives deeper. Moves faster. Hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
The desk is moving beneath us, more papers sliding to the floor. Nothing matters except this. His thumb presses harder, his hips snap forward relentlessly.
His thumb presses harder. His hips snap forward relentlessly. The rhythm builds—faster, harder, more desperate.
I'm close. So fucking close. Body coiling tight, pleasure building like pressure in a closed system.
"Come for me." His voice in my ear. Command and plea. "Let me feel it."
His fingers circle faster. His cock hits that spot again. Again.
I shatter. Come hard around him, crying out his name like I haven't in months. Like my body forgot how to come for anyone else.
My walls clench, pulsing, and he groans, following seconds later, his face buried in my neck as he grips me like I'm the only thing keeping him anchored.
"Maeve." My name again. Broken. Worshipful. "God, Maeve."
We stay frozen like that. Both breathing hard. Sweat-slicked and trembling.
His forehead presses against mine. Eyes closed. Savoring the moment or avoiding reality—hard to tell which.
I can feel his heart pounding. Or maybe it's mine. Maybe it's both.
Slowly, reality crashes back. The cold air between us where heat used to be.
We break apart. The loss of contact almost physical.
My clothes are destroyed. Blouse open, buttons scattered. Skirt bunched around my waist. Underwear torn beyond repair.
His shirt's ripped where I yanked it. Collar torn. My lipstick smeared across his mouth, his jaw, his throat.
Evidence of everything we just did painted across both of them.
Papers everywhere. My laptop on the floor. The desk a disaster of scattered contracts.
Physical proof this happened. That I let this happen.
I can't look at him. Can't face what I just did.
"That doesn't change anything." My voice shakes. Barely holding together.
Kael's silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is small.
"I know," he whispers.
But they both know it changes everything.