Chapter Ten
Roberto
She's so tight. So wet. So perfect.
It’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to lose it right here and now.
She feels better than I ever could have imagined. Better than I have any right to.
Her hands are on my back, her nails digging into my skin. Her head is thrown back, her neck a long, pale line I want to bite. Again.
She's so beautiful. So open.
So mine.
The thought is a jolt, a sudden, possessive rush that I'm not prepared for.
I am a man who likes control. Who thrives on it. Who needs it.
But with her, I feel completely out of control.
And I like it.
I pull out, almost all the way, then push back in, a slow, deep stroke that makes her gasp.
I do it again, and again, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm, getting her used to the feel of me.
I want to rush and take, take, take.
I want to draw this out. I want to make it last forever.
Her hips rise to meet me, her body instinctively finding the rhythm. She’s moving with me, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper.
I lower my head and kiss her, a deep, possessive kiss that’s all tongue and teeth. I’m claiming her. Marking her.
She kisses me back just as fiercely, her hands in my hair, holding me to her.
I can feel her body tightening, another orgasm building, a slow, steady climb.
I want to feel it. I want to feel her come around my cock.
I reach between us, my thumb finding her clit. She cries out, her body arching, her inner muscles clenching around me.
"That's it," I growl against her ear. "Come for me."
"Faster," she gasps. "Please, Roberto, faster, harder."
My name on her lips is my undoing.
I can't deny her anything.
I drive into her, harder, faster, my thumb circling her clit in a relentless rhythm.
She shatters, a broken cry tearing from her throat. Her body convulses, her pussy clamping down on me, a milking, sucking pressure. I grit my teeth and hold fast, not wanting it to be over so quickly.
I thrust through her orgasm, drawing it out, until she’s a sobbing, trembling mess beneath me.
When she finally goes limp, her body a pliant, satisfied weight, I slow my pace, returning to the long, deep strokes from before.
I kiss her, a soft, gentle kiss that’s a stark contrast to the almost brutal way I was just fucking her.
She’s boneless beneath me, her limbs heavy, her body a soft, welcoming weight.
I could stay like this forever. Buried inside her, her body wrapped around mine.
I lean down and take her nipple into my mouth, sucking gently. She shivers, her body stirring to life again.
"Roberto," she whispers, her voice a hoarse rasp. "I can't."
"Yes, you can," I say, my voice a low rumble. "Again.
I thrust into her, a slow, deliberate stroke that hits a place deep inside her.
She gasps, her back arching.
"Again," she repeats, her voice breathy and submissive.
I smile against her skin. She's learning.
I repeat the movement, again and again, a slow, deliberate rhythm that has her climbing again.
I want to take her apart. I want to reduce her to a quivering, sobbing mess.
I want to be the only one who’s ever made her feel this way.
I want to ruin her for anyone else.
The thought is a jolt, a sudden, possessive surge that’s so strong it almost takes my breath away.
This isn't just sex.
This is something more.
Something dangerous.
Something I have no business wanting.
But I do.
God help me, I do.
I increase my pace, my movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. I’m chasing my own release now, the need for it a primal, undeniable urge.
Her legs tighten around my waist, her hips rising to meet me, thrust for thrust.
She’s with me, every step of the way.
Her breath hitches, her body starting to tighten.
"I'm close," she gasps. "So close."
I pick up speed again and push her to the edge with hard pumps that pull a high moan out of her with each one. I can feel the coil tightening in my own belly, a hot, heavy pressure.
She’s clawing at my back now, her nails leaving stinging trails, her cries of pleasure a desperate, ragged chant.
"Look at me," I command, my voice a harsh growl.
Her eyes flutter open, and they're dazed with pleasure, unfocused. She's so close. I need to see her when she falls.
"Roberto," she sobs.
"I want to mark you," I growl. "Mine."
"Mark me," she pleads. "Do it."
That’s all the permission I need.
I bend my head and sink my teeth into the tender flesh where her shoulder meets her neck. It’s not a gentle bite. It’s a claiming.
She cries out, a sharp, pained sound that’s quickly swallowed by a wave of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Her body convulses, her pussy clamping down on me, a milking, sucking pressure that pulls my own orgasm from me.
I come with a hoarse shout, my whole body tensing as I spill into her, hot and endless. The pleasure is a blinding, white-hot rush, a complete and total system failure.
I collapse on top of her, my body a dead weight, my face buried in the crook of her neck. I’m shaking, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.
I feel a tremor run through her body, a soft, sweet aftershock. Her arms are wrapped around my neck, her legs are still wrapped around my waist, holding me close.
We lie there for a long moment, a tangled, sweaty mess of limbs, our bodies still joined.
I can't hear anything over the sound of my frantically beating heart.
I slowly roll to the side, taking her with me, so we’re facing each other. I brush a stray strand of hair from her face, my fingers lingering on her cheek.
She looks up at me, her eyes soft, dazed. There’s a mark on her neck, a perfect imprint of my teeth, and a fierce, primal satisfaction surges through me.
I did that.
She’s mine.
"Are you okay?" I ask, my voice a rough whisper.
She nods, a slow, sleepy smile spreading across her face. "I'm more than okay."
I kiss her, a soft, gentle kiss that's full of a tenderness that’s still as overwhelming as the fire from before.
She’s so beautiful.
She’s so…
Mine.
I don't even bother with surprise at the thought.
What’s the point?
I'm not a man who lies to himself.
This was a mistake. A stupid, reckless, impulsive mistake.
I never make mistakes.
But I did, and there's no taking it back.
Her hand comes up to my face, her thumb stroking my jawline. "You're thinking too hard."
"I'm a lawyer," I say. "It's what I do."
She laughs, a soft, husky sound. "Well, stop it. Just for a minute."
I capture her hand, bring her fingers to my lips, and press a kiss to her palm. "Okay."
She closes her eyes, her body lax and replete. I watch her, my gaze tracing the lines of her face, the curve of her neck, the perfect, bruising bite mark on her skin.
A strange, unfamiliar feeling washes over me. A feeling I can’t name.
It’s a feeling I immediately push away.
Feelings are a liability. They’re a weakness.
I can't afford to be weak.
Not now.
Not ever.
Not again.
I have rules for a reason.
And I just broke the most important one.
Don't get involved.
Not emotionally.
Not with a subordinate.
Not with someone who works for me.
And definitely not with someone like her.
Someone who’s smart, and funny, and so fucking strong it makes my chest ache.
Someone who could break me.
No.
I won't let that happen.
I can't.
I won't survive it a second time.
I pull back, just a little, creating a sliver of space between us. The loss of her warmth is a physical blow.
Her eyes flutter open, and she looks at me, a question in their depths. "What is it?"
"Nothing," I say, my voice a little too cool, a little too distant. "We should get dressed."
Her smile falters. "Oh."
I see the flicker of hurt in her eyes before she can hide it, and it hits me like a punch to the gut.
I’m an asshole.
A selfish, heartless asshole.
But it’s better this way.
For her.
And for me.
I get to my feet, my movements stiff and awkward. I pull up my trousers, fastening them with a sharp, decisive movement. I don't look at her.
I can't.
If I look at her, I'll want to touch her again.
And that’s a door I can’t afford to open.
I run a hand through my hair, a nervous habit I thought I'd broken years ago. I feel like I’m fifteen again, all clumsy hands and a heart that’s beating too fast.
I hate it.
I hear the soft rustle of fabric as she moves, and I know she's getting dressed. I risk a glance over my shoulder.
She’s sitting up, her back to me, her movements slow and deliberate. She’s refastening her bra, then she’s pulling her shirt closed, her fingers fumbling with the small, pearl buttons.
She looks small.
Vulnerable.
And I did that to her.
A wave of guilt so strong it makes me nauseous washes over me.
This is why I have rules.
To prevent this.
To prevent hurting people.
To prevent getting hurt.
I turn away, my jaw tight.
I hear her stand up, the soft tap of her shoes on the carpet. I can feel her behind me, a warm, human presence that’s both a comfort and a torment.
"Roberto," she says, her voice quiet.
I take a deep breath and turn around.
She’s standing there, her clothes back in place, her hair a little messy, her lips still swollen from my kisses. She looks beautiful. And completely wrecked.
There’s a bruise on her neck, a dark, purple mark that’s a clear sign of what we did.
A sign of my loss of control.
My mark on her.
A wave of possessiveness, hot and sharp, surges through me, followed by a cold, hard wave of self-loathing.
I did that.
I marked her.
Like an animal.
"You're bleeding," she says, her voice soft.
I look down. There are thin, red lines on my chest and back, from her nails. I hadn't even felt them.
I meet her eyes, and there's no accusation there. Only a gentle concern that makes me feel like even more of a bastard.
"I'm fine," I say, my voice a flat, emotionless line.
She nods, her gaze dropping to the floor. "Okay."
The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. The air is charged with all the things we're not saying.
I want to apologize.
I want to tell her this was a mistake.
I want to tell her it was the best mistake of my life.
I want to do it all over again.
But I don't say any of those things.
I just stand there, a silent, brooding presence in the dark, and let the silence do its work.
I can't leave it this way.
I can't leave her feeling like this.
Like a mistake.
Because she’s not.
She's the best thing that's happened to me in a long, long time.
And that’s the problem.
I take a step toward her, my movements slow and deliberate.
My fingers are aching to touch her. I reach out to touch the fabric of her shirt, run my fingers them over her skin.
But just then, the lights snap back on, and I force my hands back to my sides.
The sudden brightness is jarring. The world rushes back in, harsh and unforgiving.
The elevator lurches, a slow, grinding descent.
We're moving.
Our time is up.
The moment is broken.
She flinches, her eyes wide, and I see a flicker of the old fear, the panic that brought us together in the first place.
I want to comfort her. I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her it's okay.
But I don't.
I just stand there, a silent, useless sentinel.
I watch her swallow. I watch her smooth down her skirt, an unconscious, primming gesture that does little to hide the fact that she's just been thoroughly fucked on the floor of an elevator.
By me.
My jaw tightens.
The elevator slows, and then, with a soft ding, the doors slide open.
The world is waiting.
A clean, well-lit corridor, a stark contrast to the dark, intimate space we just occupied.
She steps out into the hallway, her movements stiff, her shoulders squared. She’s the composed, professional Olivia I know, but I can see the cracks in her facade. The slight tremor in her hands. The way she avoids my eyes.
I follow her out, my body a coiled knot of tension.
We stand there for a moment, two people who don't know what to say to each other.
The silence is a physical thing, a heavy, oppressive weight.
Her chin lifts. "Are you going to fire me?"
The question is so unexpected, so out of left field, that it takes me a second to process it.
Fire her?
Is she insane?
"Fire you?" I repeat, my voice laced with disbelief. "Why the hell would I fire you?"
She looks down at her shoes, her cheeks flushing. "For... this. For what happened. It's... unprofessional. It's a liability."
My anger flares, hot and sharp. Not at her, but at myself.
I've made her feel cheap.
I've made her feel like a liability.
A mistake to be erased.
"No," I say, my voice a low growl. "I'm not going to fire you."
She looks up, her eyes wide and uncertain. "You're not?"
"No," I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. "You're the best damn coordinator I've ever worked with. You're not going anywhere."
I see the relief wash over her, and I'm hit with a sharp, painful punch to the gut. She was really worried. She thought I would just... erase her. Pretend it never happened. Get rid of the evidence.
But that's not what I want.
I want her.
And that's the problem.
"But we can't..." she starts, her voice trailing off.
"No," I say, my voice flat, final. "We can't."
She nods, her gaze dropping to the floor again. "I understand."
The words hang in the air between us, a final, damning verdict.
I understand.
She understands that this was a one-time thing. A mistake. A glitch in the system.
And I let her believe it.
Because it's easier.
Safer.
For both of us.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I say, my voice a dismissive, impersonal line.
I see her flinch, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement, but I feel it like a physical blow.
I'm a bastard.
A cold, heartless bastard.
"Goodnight, Roberto," she says, her voice a quiet, controlled whisper.
She hitches her bag higher over her shoulder, turns, and walks away, her back straight, her head held high. She doesn't look back.
I watch her go, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
I want to call her back.
I want to pull her into my arms and kiss her until she forgets all about the cold, heartless bastard she was stuck in an elevator with.
But I don't.
I just stand there and watch her walk away, a solitary figure in the long, empty hallway, and I wonder what the hell I've just done.
And what I'm supposed to do now.