Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MAGNUS
There was an animal in this building. Not wolf.
I had established that in the thirty seconds of the handshake.
My nose ran its assessment while I performed the social ritual of introduction.
Not wolf. Not any pack species I had encountered in thirty years of moving through the supernatural political landscape.
Something that ran in a different register entirely. A frequency my wolf recognized but had no language for.
Something that had been sitting across from Nell for forty minutes. Something that had kissed her hand and left its scent in her office.
I looked at the two enforcers flanking her door.
They looked back at me with the careful expressions of men who had made a judgment call, called it in, and were now living with the consequences of that call arriving in person.
I nodded at one of them, a silent instruction to follow whatever the fuck kind of animal that was currently headed to the ground floor.
Nell was at her desk with her pen in her hand and her legal pad in front of her. Her eyes did not move from the pad when I locked the door.
"Did you need something, Mr. Blackwood?" she asked. "I'm working."
I looked at her. At the pad. At the pen moving across it. At the neck high blouse hiding her curves away from me. At the skirt that had a slit where lush brown skin played peekaboo.
I crossed the room. I swept the legal pad off the desk.
The pen followed, clattering to the floor.
That was followed by the portfolio the dead man had left.
Then a folder, a coffee cup — empty, fortunately — and a small ceramic dish that held paper clips all landed on the carpet with a sound that scattered its contents across a six-foot radius.
Nell looked at the carpet. Then at me. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Those were organized."
I pulled her chair back. Lifted her off it with my hands at her waist. And sat her on the desk.
I lowered myself into her chair. Unbuttoning my suit jacket as I did so.
I looked up at her from the position of a man who had just placed himself precisely where he wanted to be and had no intention of moving.
Her skirt had ridden up when I lifted her.
Her knees were level with my chest. Her eyes were blazing with an anger that had several layers to it, and I was aware of every single one. They smelled like smoky vanilla.
"Magnus, I swear to God—"
I put my hands on her knees and pulled them apart. Her sentence stopped.
Forcing my claws to stay put, because I knew how women felt about ruining their pretty things, I pushed her skirt up, watching her face with complete, focused attention.
The anger was still there; it wasn't going anywhere.
It was real, and it was Nell's, and I wasn't trying to extinguish it.
I was going to throw fuel on it and revel in the burn.
Her hands came down to grip the edge of the desk. Her knuckles went bloodless against the wood.
Good. Hold on.
I ran my thumbs along the inside of her thighs. A shiver moved through her. She didn't stop me. She didn't utter a single word of protest. Because she wanted this as much as I did.
I slid her underwear aside. She inhaled sharply through her nose.
I found her with my fingers. Felt how ready she was. Felt my own jaw tighten in response. My wolf was making a keening sound— that not-quite-purr, not-quite-growl — and my cock was a hard, insistent weight against my fly. I was going to ignore it for as long as necessary.
I wanted to watch. I wanted to taste. I'd been sucking my thumb like a child all night long. I was going straight for the tap.
I worked her slowly. Watching every flicker. Reading every intake of breath. She was close within four minutes. The tension of her thighs against my hands gave her away. Her head dropped back and she let out a moan.
I stopped.
Complete withdrawal. Hands off. I sat back in her chair with a patience I did not feel.
"Magnus—" It came out ragged, not the sharp executive voice.
I waited. My body between her legs, not allowing her to close them. Not allowing either of us any relief.
The tension in her thighs released incrementally. She looked at me with an expression that contained fury and want in equal, combustible measure.
She parted her lips, likely to berate me. Or to tell me what to do. No woman told me what to do. Nell was going to learn this lesson today.
I put my hands back on her. She bit her lip. Her hips moved toward me immediately. Her body gave up the pretense of playing cool. I gave her more; not enough, never enough, the exact calibrated amount that kept her at the edge without letting her tip over it.
She was fighting to keep composed. Her fingertips were white on the desk edge, drained of all blood as she tried to hold on. A loc fell across her cheek that she couldn't swipe away because her hands were occupied with not letting go.
She was the most extraordinary thing I had ever seen.
I stopped again.
"You absolute—" She couldn't finish the sentence. She was breathing too hard. She'd need more air in her lungs before she could say more. I had no intention of letting her do anything with that mouth other than gasp my name and beg.
I leaned forward and replaced my fingers with my mouth.
Nell made a sound that hit me at the base of my spine and traveled straight to my balls. Her hand came down and found my hair. She was not gentle about it; I did not mind. She tried to direct my movements, which was not going to fly.
I sucked her clit between my lips like it was a lollipop.
Which it pretty much was. Nell was sweet honey on my tongue.
I pulled her bud as I licked the underside with my tongue.
She was trembling; her grip on my hair was desperate, but also directionless.
She was saying my name in a broken, fractured way, showing she was not in control of what came out of her mouth.
I stopped. Let go of her clit with a pop. I couldn't control how the flat of my tongue took a last lick before I sat back.
Nell stared at the ceiling for a moment.
Her chest heaving. Her thighs still spread.
Her whole body shaking like one of those old-school rollercoasters on Coney Island.
The full-body, bone-deep tremor of a woman whose nervous system had been taken to the edge repeatedly and was no longer in possession of its usual composure.
She looked as if the Cyclone had gotten hold of her.
Every New Yorker knew that ride; the wooden coaster that had been rattling people's bones since 1927.
The one that went up and up and right to the edge of what felt survivable and then held you through the drop.
The point was never the drop. The point was the hold.
I was the hold. Because in the hold you could do nothing but surrender.
That was what I had wanted.
Not the sounds she made, though those were going to live in the base of my eardrums for the rest of my natural life. Not the sight of her across her desk, undone, magnificent, entirely mine in this moment.
I had her surrender. I had her in my hold. I had her trust.
I pushed back the chair, stood up, and buttoned my suit jacket.
I ran a hand through my hair where she had pulled at it.
I restored order with clinical efficiency.
I watched her as she was left suspended in the air.
Watched as the haze of the clouds began to dissipate.
Watched as she crashed back down into reality.
"Magnus. What the actual fuck?"
"You're not taking the Omondi contract. If he touches you—" I stopped. Started again. "If anyone touches you. If you touch anyone."
I held her gaze.
"I will rip their throats out."
I walked out and pulled the door closed behind me with a careful click that was more final than any slam would have been.