Fear should kill desire, but my body missed that particular memo entirely.
Sarah's threats loop through my skull like a song I can't stop hearing. Her promises of carved flesh and stolen babies play on repeat behind my eyes. Yet my skin still burns for him, craving comfort in the only place terror can't follow.
Go to him. He's the only safety you've ever known.
The packhouse corridors stretch empty as I navigate toward his office after midnight. My bare feet pad against cold stone, each step carrying me closer to the man I shouldn't need this desperately.
Golden light bleeds beneath his door like a beacon calling me home through the darkness.
I push it open without knocking, and Paul looks up from scattered paperwork immediately. His ice-blue eyes scan my face with that predatory intensity, reading everything I cannot say aloud to him.
He's on his feet before I can speak, crossing the distance between us in three swift strides. His hands cup my face with devastating gentleness, thumbs stroking my cheekbones while he searches my expression.
"What happened?" The question comes out rough with concern I don't deserve.
I can't tell him about Sarah without revealing everything else.
"Nothing I want to talk about right now," I manage, voice cracking on the words.
"You're trembling like a leaf in a storm," he observes quietly.
"Paul, please don't ask me questions tonight," I whisper desperately.
His thumbs continue their slow circles against my skin, patient and impossibly gentle. The tenderness threatens to shatter every wall I've built to survive this place.
"Then tell me what you need instead," he says softly.
I answer with my mouth instead of words, rising on my toes to kiss him. The press of my lips carries everything I cannot confess—fear and confusion and desperate hunger tangled together.
He starts to pull back, probably to ask more questions I can't answer, but I chase his mouth with shameless need. My fingers curl into his shirt, yanking him closer until no space remains between our bodies.
More. I need more of him right now.
A sound escapes my throat that I barely recognize—needy, desperate, almost feral in its intensity. I kiss him like I'm drowning and his mouth is the only source of air in the entire world.
His hands grip my waist, steadying me, but I'm already climbing him like he's the last tree in a flood. My body arches against his chest, seeking contact everywhere at once.
"Morgan—" he tries, but I swallow his words with another hungry kiss.
My tongue slides against his, tasting coffee and want and the particular flavor of him that's become an addiction I can't quit. I nip at his lower lip, then soothe the sting with my tongue.
The whimper that escapes me sounds pathetic, and I don't care at all. I press closer, fingers threading through his hair, tugging until he growls into my mouth.
Heat pools low in my belly, spreading outward like wildfire through dry brush. Every nerve ending screams for his touch, his taste, his skin against mine.
"Please," I breathe against his lips, the word fracturing into a moan when his teeth graze my throat.
My hips roll against him without conscious decision, seeking friction like a cat desperate for attention. The motion drags another growl from his chest, vibrating against my breasts.
I'm shameless tonight, and I embrace it completely without apology or hesitation.
Paul responds with equal hunger, one hand sliding into my hair while the other grips my hip. He walks me backward until my thighs hit the edge of his massive desk.
His hands grip my waist, lifting me onto the polished wood surface without breaking our kiss. Papers scatter across the floor in whispered chaos, but neither of us cares about the mess we're making.
"Morgan," he groans against my throat, mouth dragging hot against my pulse point.
"Don't stop touching me," I gasp, fingers fisting in his shirt desperately.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. His chest heaves with barely restrained hunger as he reads the desperation written across my face.
His mouth begins mapping my body with devastating attention, hands working the buttons of my blouse. Fabric falls away to bare every curve beneath, and his palms cup my breasts with possessive reverence.
He refuses to let me hate my body, worshipping every inch of softness with his lips. My bra falls away, and his mouth closes over one peaked nipple while his hand tends the other.
My fingers thread through his dark hair, pulling him closer as heat pools low in my belly. His lips trail lower, kissing across the soft swell of my stomach that I've learned to despise.
But his reverence rewrites every cruel word Sarah ever carved into my self-worth.
My skirt bunches around my hips as his hands push the fabric higher with clear intent. His fingers hook into my underwear, dragging the fabric down my trembling thighs.
Then he kneels between my spread legs, and my heart nearly stops beating entirely.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he confesses, breath burning against my center.
When his tongue finally touches my aching core, a cry tears from my throat violently. The sound echoes through the empty office, obscene and undeniable in the midnight silence.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open while his mouth works devastating patterns. Pleasure builds with ruthless precision, coiling tighter with every stroke of his tongue.
More. I need more of whatever this feeling is.
He reads every twitch and moan, driving me higher toward the edge with expert focus. The pressure climbs until I'm certain I'll shatter into a thousand irreparable pieces.
Then he pulls back completely, watching me writhe with silver-eyed satisfaction smoldering in his gaze. His lips curve wickedly against my inner thigh as I whimper beneath him.
He rises to his full height, belt buckle clinking as he frees himself. The sharp sound cuts through my desperate whimpers as he positions himself at my entrance.
One smooth thrust slides him home, and we both groan at the devastating connection. The stretch feels familiar now, welcome rather than overwhelming after everything we've shared together.
I lock my ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper into my body instinctively.
"You feel perfect around me," he growls, beginning to move with purpose.
The desk creaks beneath our combined weight, wood groaning in rhythmic protest. His pace builds from gentle to demanding, each thrust driving me higher toward oblivion.
"Harder," I demand, nails scoring his shoulders through thin cotton fabric.
He obliges with a growl, snapping his hips with force that steals my breath completely. One hand grips my hip while the other braces against the desk for leverage.
My nails drag down his back as he drives me higher, leaving marks he'll wear tomorrow. The desk protests louder with each thrust, paperwork crushed beneath my spine.
We move together in the darkness, two desperate people clinging to the only thing that feels real. His mouth finds mine again, swallowing my cries as pleasure builds toward breaking point.
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