24. Jenna
Jenna
Iturn. My hips meet the edge of the mahogany.
Dominic gives no ground, just crowds me in, hands anchoring at my waist. He hikes my skirt up higher, deliberate and slow, thumbs tracing sin lines against my thigh, and I’m hyper-aware of every microsecond the fabric exposes more of my skin to the cool air of his office.
He bends me at the waist, so my upper body is flush with the desk, palms splayed on the smooth, glossy veneer. My forehead touches down, and I try not to gasp as I feel his hand—warm, claiming—graze the curve of my ass.
“You know I could never get you out of my head after Tokyo?” he says, like a confession given to the lacquer of the wood or the city smoldering outside the window. “The first time I tasted you, I knew I’d have a lifelong addiction.”
He says it as his hand slips between my thighs and hooks my underwear to the side, knuckles cool where they brush the heat of me. Even after weeks of him owning my body, the obscene intimacy of him makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Or into his.
A single finger runs the length of me. Once, twice, then in, unhurried.
He’s not sweet about it, but he’s not cruel either—it’s just purpose, pure and distilled.
I arch my back for him, and his free hand presses hard between my shoulders, like his only mission is to keep me right here for as long as it takes.
He buries two fingers inside me, crooking just enough that I see stars behind my closed lids, and his mouth lands at the shell of my ear, voice low enough to be a threat. “You’re wet,” he says. “I haven’t even started and you’re already dripping down my hand.”
I make a sound. It isn’t a word. My left leg gives a little, and he laughs so quietly I feel it as vibration more than sound.
He moves his fingers, alternating between ruthless and slow until I’m frantic, clutching the desk edge and keening.
He circles my clit with his thumb, barely there, maddening strokes, and whispers things in my ear that are pure filth, each one precisely engineered to make me lose my mind on the edge of his desk.
He slows, lets me almost catch my breath, and then pulls back completely. I whimper, audibly, and he drops to his knees behind me like he’s worshipping at the altar of my undoing.
The hot hush of his breath trails up the inside of my thigh, and I curse his name in three languages before his mouth lands in a wet, unspooling lick that damn near makes my knees collapse.
He doesn’t tease—doesn’t toy with me like this is a fundraise or a pitch.
It’s consumption. He pushes my thighs wider, nose buried obscene and deep, tongue flat and strong and perfectly, perfectly ruthless.
My forehead thunks against the lacquer of the desk and I see my own faint reflection, ruined and open, mouth slack with astonishment at how fast this man can reduce my entire personality to a puddle.
He pulls my hips back a fraction, crowding in on his knees, so all of me angles toward his mouth.
I can feel every humid exhale, every rumbling curse he makes as he works me with the patient hunger of a conqueror convinced the city will surrender.
Two fingers inside, his tongue zeroing in on my clit with surgical precision, and the sound I make is high and shattered—nothing even close to a word.
“Come on my face, Jen,” he rasps.
My hips rock. “Dominic—”
He closes his mouth over me, sucking hard and slick, and the sound I make is a sob, raw and startled, like I’ve never been touched in my life.
Pressure builds and builds; my whole body wants to run from it and chase it at once.
He fists one hand against my thigh to keep me clamped tight, and eats until I come so hard I see static—no thoughts, just whiteout, and the sound of his name tearing from my throat.
I collapse, panting, into the crook of my elbow, and for a moment, he keeps licking, slow and soft, as if returning every favor I’ve never dared ask for.
“I will never get tired of eating you,” he says, kissing me lightly. “You’re fucking delicious.”
When he stands, his mouth is slick and arrogant, chin shiny with evidence.
He wipes it with the back of his hand and pulls his dick out, already rock hard.
I want to say something clever, something that will suggest I haven’t just been reduced to an audio file of desperate keening, but he shoves my skirt higher, tugs my panties to the floor, then lines himself up, and rams inside with a violence that makes my vision spangle.
I yelp, and the yelp turns into a groan, and the groan turns into “fuck, yes” because there is no vocabulary left for the feel of him pounding me in the same room where he closes deals and ruins men for sport.
He sets a bruising pace, hands full of my hips, slamming into me so hard I have to brace my forearms against the glossy wood.
The sound is filthy—our bodies, the shameless slap of skin, the close-mouthed curses he mutters with every thrust—and it’s all I want, all I ever wanted: this man, this ruin, this absolute surrender with no room left for calculation.
Just the raw, relentless drive of him inside me, and the city glittering below like it belongs to us, like we’ve already won.
I arch my back, pushing against him, meeting every thrust with the same desperate greed he’s giving me.
My hair has come loose from its bun, falling around my face in dark strands that catch the amber light from the window.
I can see us reflected in the glass—two figures fused together, one bent and open, the other driving forward with single-minded intent. It’s obscene. It’s perfect.
“Look at you,” he grits out, his fingers digging into my hip bones hard enough to leave marks I’ll find tomorrow. “Look at what you let me do to you.”
I do look. I watch us in the reflection on the windows, watch the way his jaw clenches with every stroke, watch the way my mouth hangs open in silent plea.
I’ve spent my whole life controlling how the world sees me—posture perfect, armor intact, never a hair out of place.
And here I am, wrecked across his desk, skirt rucked up around my waist, making sounds that would get me fired from any boardroom in the country.
He slows, just enough to drag his thumb down my spine, tracing each vertebra like he’s counting them. “Tell me,” he demands, though his voice has gone soft, almost wondering. “Tell me what you want.”
All that comes out is truth: “You. Harder.”
He groans, a broken sound that vibrates through my whole body, and then he’s giving me exactly what I asked for—deeper, rougher, his hand gripping my hair and tilting my head back so he can watch my face in the reflection.
His grip is precise and controlled, just enough to hold me exactly where he wants me without pulling too hard.
He’s terrifying like this. He’s everything.
“You’re going to come for me again,” he says. It isn’t a question. “Before I’m finished. You’re going to come around my cock with my name in your mouth.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him he doesn’t get to dictate my body’s timeline. But then he shifts his angle, finds the exact spot that makes my vision narrow to a single point of light, and I feel it building—inevitable, unstoppable, the kind of orgasm that doesn’t ask permission.
“Now,” he commands, and my body obeys before my mind can catch up.
I convulse around him, muscles clamping down so hard I feel him falter, feel his rhythm stutter as he fights to keep moving through the pulse of it.
I cry out, raw and unguarded, his mouth at my ear, whispering filthy encouragement, praise, possession.
He follows soon after—three more brutal thrusts and then he’s buried to the hilt, groaning my name like it’s the only word he knows. I feel him spill inside me, hot and claiming, and there’s a primitive satisfaction in it that I refuse to analyze.
We stay like that for a moment, fused and breathless, my forehead back on the cool mahogany while his hand releases my hair and traces a gentle line down my back.
The city hums outside, indifferent to whatever we’ve just done to each other.
I can feel his heartbeat where he’s still inside me, slowing from its frantic pace.
“Stay still,” he murmurs, voice still rough. He pulls out carefully, one hand steadying my hip while the other reaches for some tissues. I watch him over my shoulder as he cleans us both as best he can. When he smooths my skirt down, his palm lingers against my thigh, warm through the fabric.
“Your panties,” he says, holding them out with a grin that should be illegal.
I take them, but my fingers aren’t quite working right yet, and he laughs—low, delighted—and does it himself, sliding the red lace up my legs with maddening care, his knuckles grazing sensitive skin and making me shiver.
He adjusts the waistband with a proprietary pat, then offers his hand to help me stand.
“Don’t think I don’t remember that lingerie set from Tokyo,” he says as he turns me to face him and pulls my blouse back to get a peek at the red lacy bra. “Seems I’m not the only one who was looking for a logistical ploy and a locked office.”
I laugh then wobble. He catches me, pulling me against his chest where his heart has settled to something closer to normal. I can smell myself on him, on his jaw, his breath, and instead of embarrassment I feel only this absurd, giddy warmth rising up my throat like champagne bubbles.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say into his collarbone, though I’m grinning against his shirt.
“You’re magnificent.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and I realize my bun has completely dissolved, dark waves falling past my shoulders in a way that makes me feel younger, more careless than I’ve allowed myself to be in years. “Also, you have lipstick on your teeth.”
I gasp, mortified, and wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand while he laughs—actually laughs, head tipped back, the sound filling his office like something earned. When he looks at me again, his eyes are soft in a way that makes my chest constrict.
“Better?” I ask.
“Worse,” he says, and kisses me slow—unhurried, thorough, like he’s tasting what’s left of us and memorizing the flavor.
His thumb traces my jaw, my cheekbone, the corner of my mouth where the burgundy has smeared.
When he pulls back, he’s wearing some of it too, a faint stain on his lower lip that I want to bite clean off.
I lean into him, letting my body weight settle against his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt. My arms loop around his neck and I laugh, breathless and genuine, because I cannot remember the last time I felt this unguarded in my own skin.
“What?” he asks, smiling against my temple.
“Nothing. Everything.” I pull back enough to look at him, to take in the mussed hair and swollen mouth and the gold band on his finger that matches mine. Forty-six days left on our trial, and I’m standing in his locked office wearing his cologne and my own ruin, and I can’t stop grinning.
“Your place or mine?” I say, the words tumbling out before I can calculate the variables, before I can weigh which location offers better cover, easier exit routes, less exposure to witnesses. I just want to keep being wherever he is.
“Yours is logistically preferable,” he says. “It cuts twenty minutes from my morning commute.”
“Yes, but yours has that giant tub.”
He stops.
The delight on his face is immediate.
“Are you choosing my house over operational efficiency?”
“I’m choosing superior bathroom infrastructure.”
“Of course. I’ll have it filled before you get your shoes off.”
He holds out his hand.
I take it, and we walk out of Cruz Financial together.
For infrastructure reasons, obviously.