Chapter 19 Bree
Bree
Nico backs me toward his desk without breaking the kiss, and I should probably be concerned about the fact that the cleaning crew is somewhere on this floor past those opaque walls, but my brain has officially left the building.
His hands find my hips, lifting me onto the edge of his desk like I weigh nothing. Papers scatter. I slide against a cardboard box.
“The pizza,” I gasp against his mouth.
“Fuck the pizza.”
The box slides off the desk and lands with a wet thump. Half-eaten pepperoni, meet expensive carpet. RIP.
He steps between my thighs, and even through layers of fabric I can feel him. Hard and ready. His hands grip my knees and push them wider apart, making room for himself, and the possessiveness of the gesture sends heat flooding through me.
“Is the door locked?” I manage, even as my fingers are already working at his tie.
He touches something on the wall panel behind him, and I hear the deadbolt click.
“Door’s locked.” His voice is rough. Like he’s barely holding himself together.
His mouth finds my neck, right where he left those marks two nights ago, and rational thought dissolves into static. He sucks on the concealer, then bites down.
“Nico,” I whimper.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His hair is disheveled from my fingers. His eyes are dark and hungry and focused entirely on me. The scars on his face catch in the light... that twisted tissue should probably make him look intimidating but instead just makes him look real.
God, he’s beautiful.
His hands find the buttons of my blouse.
He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just methodically works each button free while watching my face, and somehow that’s hotter than if he’d just ripped it open.
“This blouse,” he murmurs, pushing the fabric aside to reveal my bra. “You have no idea what this blouse does to me. The gap between the third and fourth buttons...”
“I have some idea.” My voice comes out breathier than intended. “You stare at it constantly when you think I’m not looking.”
“I stare at everything constantly.” His thumb traces along the edge of my bra cup. “You. Your hands when you type. The way you bite your cheek when you’re holding back. The way you smell like vanilla and jasmine and coffee and it drives me fucking insane.”
Oh.
Oh god.
My cheeks flush hot. I’m not used to being seen like this. Being catalogued. Being wanted with this kind of focused intensity.
I used to think I was invisible to him.
How wrong I was.
His mouth is trailing down my collarbone and every nerve ending in my body lights up like a Christmas tree.
He reaches under my bra, cups my breasts in his palms, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I arch into his touch without meaning to.
“So responsive,” he murmurs against my skin. “Every time. Like you’re surprised someone wants to touch you.”
“Maybe I am.”
He looks up at that. Something complicated moves through his expression. “Then everyone you’ve been with before was a fucking idiot.”
God.
Stop saying things like that.
He shoves down my bra cup and his mouth closes over my nipple and I have to bite down on my lip to keep from moaning too loud. The cleaning crew.... they’re still out there somewhere.
But then I hear it. The distant whir of a vacuum cleaner starting up down the hall.
Cover noise.
Nico hears it, too. His smile against my skin is wicked. “Perfect timing.”
“We’re using the cleaning staff as cover for office sex?”
“Uh huh.” He straightens up, his hands moving to his belt.
It clinks as he opens it. The sound of his zipper is obscenely loud to my ears, even with the vacuum cleaner whirring in the distance.
Through the gap in his trousers, I can see him straining against his boxer briefs. Already hard. Already leaking, judging from the wet spots.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. Retrieves a condom. Sets it on the desk beside me.
“Lift your skirt,” he says.
I lift my skirt.
His sharp inhale is gratifying. My underwear is nothing special. Black cotton. Practical. But the way he’s looking at me, you’d think I was wearing La Perla.
“Every day,” he says roughly. “Every fucking day you sit outside my office and I imagine this. You. Here. Like this.”
“That seems very distracting for a CEO,” I quip weakly.
“You have no fucking idea.” He hooks his fingers in my underwear and tugs them down my legs. Tosses them somewhere. Probably near the ruined pizza.
My underwear is on his office floor.
My underwear is on my boss’s floor.
This is happening.
He pushes his boxer briefs down just enough to free himself. His cock springs out, thick and flushed and already glistening at the tip. I remember how it felt inside me. How it stretched me. How he made me cum so hard I saw stars.
My pussy clenches at the memory.
He tears open the condom with his teeth. Rolls it on with practiced efficiency. Then his hands are on my thighs, spreading them wider, and he’s lining himself up at my entrance.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I do.
His eyes lock onto mine as he pushes in. Slowly. Letting me feel every inch.
Oh god—
Oh god—
Oh god—
I’m wet enough that he slides in easily, but he’s big enough that there’s still that moment of adjustment. That stretch. The fullness that borders on too much.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t close his eyes. Just watches my face as he seats himself fully inside me.
“Okay?” he asks.
“More than okay.” My voice is wrecked. “Why do you always ask?”
“Because I need to know.” He pulls back slightly, then thrusts in again. Deeper. “I need to know I’m not hurting you.”
God.
Why does that make me want to cry?
But then he’s pounding me and I forget how to think.
The vacuum cleaner is still going somewhere down the hall.
I let myself moan as he sets a rhythm. His hands grip my hips to keep me anchored on the desk.
“Harder,” I breathe.
He obliges.
The desk shudders with each thrust. His laptop slides dangerously close to the edge. More papers flutter to the floor. I’m pretty sure something important is getting crushed under my ass right now, but I can’t bring myself to care because he’s hitting that spot inside me with devastating accuracy.
“Nico.” I fist my hands in his shirt. “Oh god, right there.”
“Here?” He angles his hips and drives deeper. “You like that?”
“You know I do.”
His laugh is low and dark. “Oh I know. I’ve thought about nothing else for days. The sounds you make. The way you feel. The way you look when you cum.”
I’m climbing fast. Too fast. The combination of his voice and his cock and the sheer wrongness of doing this in his office while the cleaning crew vacuums twenty feet away is pushing me toward the edge.
“I can feel you getting close,” he murmurs against my ear. “Your pussy’s clenching around me. You want to cum?”
“Yes.” It comes out desperate.
He doesn’t draw it out tonight. “Then cum. Bree. Cum on my fucking cock. Let me feel it. Milk me.”
And because my body apparently takes orders from him even when my brain refuses to, I shatter.
I bite down on his shoulder to muffle my scream, tasting expensive fabric and underneath it, his skin. The orgasm rolls through me in waves, my inner muscles squeezing him, and I hear his groan vibrating through his chest.
“Fuck.” His hips stutter. Lose their rhythm. “Bree. Bree.”
He cums with my name on his lips. I feel him pulsing inside me even through the condom.
His forehead drops to my shoulder and his whole body shudders as he empties himself.
He collapses heavily on top of me, and for a long moment, neither of us moves.
The vacuum cleaner stops. Footsteps pass by in the hallway outside. We both freeze, holding our breath, but they keep going.
Eventually, he lifts his head. His hair is a disaster. His tie is askew and partially undone, thanks to my earlier fumbling with it. He looks thoroughly debauched.
I probably look worse.
“That was...” I start.
“Incredible,” he finishes.
He’s still inside me. Neither of us seems inclined to change that.
“We can’t keep doing this,” I say.
He finally pulls out, dealing with the condom. “Not here, anyway.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He tucks himself back into his trousers. Zips up. Looks at me sitting on his destroyed desk with my blouse hanging open and my skirt around my waist and my panties god knows where.
“I mean at work, we keep it professional.” His voice is careful. “Outside of work...”
“Outside of work?” I prompt.
“We do whatever the fuck we want,” he finishes.
My stomach does its butterfly thing. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, or a terrible idea.”
“Probably both,” he replies.
I nod slowly. “A relationship between a CEO and his secretary. The gossip. The HR nightmare.”
He purses his lips. “All true.”
“If anyone found out, my reputation would be destroyed,” I tell him. “Again.”
He furrows his brow. “Again?”
Shit.
I didn’t mean to say that. The Kendrick thing. The academic career that got torpedoed because I trusted the wrong man.
“Long story.” I slide off the desk on shaky legs. Start buttoning my blouse. “The point is, this is complicated.”
“Everything about us is complicated.” He hands me my underwear. Found it near his overturned pen holder. “I can’t concentrate when you’re around. All I think about is you. And apparently you feel the same, otherwise you wouldn’t have stayed late tonight.”
He’s right.
Damn him.
He’s fixing his tie now.
“So we keep it professional at work,” I say slowly. “And outside of work...”
“We stop fighting this.” He steps closer. Tips my chin up to look at him. “We try. See where it goes. No promises. No pressure. Just... us.”
Us.
The word sits between us like something fragile and new.
I should say no. Should protect myself. Should remember every lesson I learned about trusting powerful men.
But Nico isn’t Kendrick. Nico looks at me like I’m brilliant, not like I’m useful. Nico asks if I’m okay. Nico stalked me halfway across Manhattan because he couldn’t stand watching another man touch me.
That’s not healthy, by the way. That’s actually very concerning.
And yet.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “We try.”
His smile is small. Almost tentative. Like he didn’t expect me to agree.
“Okay,” he echoes.
We spend the next ten minutes cleaning up his office. Righting papers. Rescuing his laptop. Disposing of the pizza casualties. By the time we’re done, it almost looks normal.
“I should go,” I say. “It’s late.”
“Since we just agreed we can do anything outside of work,” he says, watching me carefully, “we might as well start now.”
I wait. There’s more coming. I can see it in the tension around his mouth.
“Can I sleep at your apartment tonight?” he finishes.
Oh.
Oh.
My hesitation must show on my face because he adds, “It’s fine if you don’t want to.” He rakes a nervous hand through his hair. “I just... don’t want to go back to an empty penthouse again. A penthouse without... you.”
The vulnerability in his voice squeezes my chest.
He just had sex with me on his desk like he was staking a claim. And now he’s asking, not demanding, asking, if he can sleep over at my tiny studio apartment in Astoria.
If I agree, that makes it real. Not just words or promises or “we’ll try.”
Real.
This feels like too much too fast and I know better and every self-preservation instinct I have is screaming at me to pump the brakes.
“When I said we’d try,” I start carefully, “I kind of envisioned... I don’t know. Actual dates? Holding hands? Making out under the stars like normal people first? Not moving in together.”
His expression closes off slightly. “Right. Of course. I just wanted to sleep over. Not move in.”
“I just meant—” God, why is this so hard? “I’ve done the ‘jump in headfirst’ thing before and it ended badly.”
“You’re right.” He takes a step back, and I immediately hate the distance. “It was too much. Bad idea.”
“I didn’t say it was a bad idea—”
“You don’t have to explain.” His voice has gone carefully neutral. “I overstepped. It’s fine.”
It’s not fine. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his shoulders have gone rigid.
Dammit.
Nico’s retreating behind his walls again, assuming the worst.
Why am I being so obstinate about this anyway? It would be kind of nice to have him with me all night. To have him ravage me again. And again. And again.
Fuck it.
“Okay,” I blurt out.
He pauses. “Okay what?”
“Okay, you can come to my apartment,” I tell him. “Tonight. Tomorrow night. Whenever you want.”
He blinks. Then his eyes brighten. “Really?”
There goes my stomach doing that stupid fluttery thing again. “Really.”
His smile is small but genuine. “Thank you.” He opens his mouth again, as if to tell me something more, something important, but he shuts it and points toward the office door. “After you.”
We take the elevator down to the parking garage level. The underground lot is dim, and our footsteps echo loudly on the concrete.
Nico’s Mercedes is parked in its designated spot, and Indira looks up from her phone as we approach. Callahan materializes, his expression neutral despite the fact that it’s nearly midnight and his boss is showing up with his secretary.
“Indira,” Nico says. “We need a ride to Astoria.”
She pockets her phone. “Got it.”
Nico settles in beside me. Callahan takes the front passenger seat, Indira the driver’s seat, and then we’re pulling out of the garage and into the Manhattan night.
This is surreal.
Nico Rossi is coming to my apartment.
What are we doing?
This is going to end badly.
This always ends badly.
I shake my head, thinking about the way he just fucked me on his desk, and also thinking about how only more of that mind-blowing sex awaits tonight.
No. It’s going to end well.
Stop being so negative.
I catch sight of my reflection in the darkened window. My blouse still wrinkled from his hands, my lipstick long gone, my hair mussed.
I look like exactly what I am: a woman who just had sex with her boss and is now bringing him home.
You’re an idiot.
A complete and total idiot.
But as we cross into Queens and the familiar streets of Astoria start appearing, I realize something.
I’m smiling.
Maybe I am an idiot.
But for the first time in a long time, I’m an idiot who feels alive.