Chapter 7 #2
He kisses me again—harder, deeper, his hand fisting in my hair and tilting my head where he wants it.
His other hand slides down my hip and grips, and I gasp against his mouth because there’s nothing careful about it.
Nothing measured. The composed, precise attorney who reads documents with his index finger and writes in clean handwriting is gone.
The man kissing me is hungry and his hands are impatient and when he lifts me onto the desk I hear papers scatter and something heavy hit the floor and neither of us looks to see what it was.
My skirt rides up as he sets me on the edge.
His hands push it higher—up my thighs, bunching it at my hips—and the cool surface of the desk against the backs of my bare thighs makes me shiver.
He steps between my legs and I can feel him—hard against my inner thigh through his suit pants—and the heat of it, the size of it, makes my breath stutter.
“You’ve been thinking about this too,” I say. Not a question.
“Since the day you argued with me about telling your grandmother.” His voice is low. Rough. His thumb traces the edge of my underwear along my hip. “You told me I didn’t have to like it. I had to win.” His fingers slip under the waistband. “That’s the moment.”
He pulls my underwear down. Slow. Over my knees, off my ankles. He drops them on the floor without looking and his eyes don’t leave mine.
“That’s the moment you decided you wanted to fuck me?” I’m breathless and grinning and something about that—the grin, the challenge—makes his expression change. The last thread of composure snaps. I can see it go.
“That’s the moment I decided a lot of things.” He drops to his knees.
His hands push my thighs apart and his mouth is on me—hot, wet, no preamble, no teasing.
His tongue drags flat against my pussy and I jolt like I’ve been shocked.
My hand flies to the back of his head, fingers twisting in his hair—thick, dark, nothing like Grant’s—and he groans against me and the vibration makes my toes curl.
“Fuck.” My head tips back. My hips roll against his mouth and he lets me—lets me grind against his tongue while his hands grip my thighs and hold them open.
He finds my clit and sucks, gentle at first, then harder when my fingers tighten in his hair, and my spine arches and I’m making sounds that would echo in this glass office if I cared, which I don’t.
I don’t care about anything except his mouth and his hands and the pressure building like a wave behind my navel.
He pulls back. His lips are wet. He looks up at me from his knees and the sight of Dominic Voss—the man who took Grant apart in a bank lobby without raising his voice—kneeling between my legs with that expression is something I’m going to remember for the rest of my life.
“Get up here,” I say, and reach for his belt.
He stands. I yank the belt open. His zipper.
I reach inside and wrap my hand around his cock and he’s thick and hard and hot in my palm and the breath that hisses out of him is the best sound I’ve heard in months.
I stroke him—firm, base to tip—and his hand slams flat on the desk beside my hip and his head drops forward and his breath comes ragged against my neck.
“Nora—“
“I want you inside me.” I guide him forward, the head of his cock sliding against my pussy—wet, aching, ready—and we both groan at the contact. “Now.”
He pushes in. One long, thick stroke that fills me so completely my vision goes white at the edges. My hands grab the back of his shirt, fisting the fabric, and my mouth opens against his shoulder and I bite down because the sound I’d make otherwise would rattle the windows.
“Christ.” His voice is shattered. He pulls back—slow, the drag of him making my thighs shake—and drives in again.
Hard. The desk lurches. Something else falls.
I hear glass hit carpet and I don’t care because he’s fucking me with the same deliberate intensity he brings to everything—precise, relentless, every thrust hitting deep enough to make my abs clench.
“Harder,” I gasp, and he gives me harder.
His hand grips my hip, tilting me, changing the angle, and his cock hits a spot that makes my whole body seize.
My legs lock around his waist and I pull him deeper and his pace breaks—faster now, rougher, the composed rhythm dissolving into something raw and urgent.
“You feel incredible.” His forehead presses against mine. His eyes are open, watching me—the flush climbing my chest, my tits pressed against his shirt, my mouth open and panting. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
“Show me.”
He pulls out and I gasp at the loss—empty, aching—and then his hands are on my hips, spinning me around, bending me forward over the desk.
My palms hit the wood. His hand slides up my spine, pressing me down gently, and I arch my back and push my ass toward him and hear him exhale—a rough, wrecked sound.
His cock pushes into me from behind and the angle is deeper, fuller, and I moan loud enough that I worry his staff might hear me.
His hand grips my hip, the other flat on the desk beside mine, and he fucks me in long, deep strokes that make the desk rock against the floor with every thrust. I can feel every inch of him—the stretch, the drag, the thick head of his cock pressing against the spot that’s building a fire in my lower belly.
“Right there—don’t stop—“ My fingers claw at the desk and my thighs are trembling and his hand slips around my hip, fingers finding my clit, circling fast, pressing just hard enough, and the combination—his cock deep inside me, his fingers working my clit, his ragged breathing behind me—is too much. Everything tightens.
“Come for me.” Low. Commanding. A voice that has won every argument it’s ever been in.
My orgasm rips through me—blinding, convulsive—and I cry out against the desk and my pussy clenches around him and I feel him grip my hips with both hands and slam in deep, once, twice, three times, and then he groans—guttural, broken, real—and comes inside me.
We stay there. Bent over his desk. Breathing.
His hand moves to my lower back—gentle now, tracing slow circles—and I laugh.
I actually laugh. Loud and real and surprised by how good it feels, how fun this is, how the tension that’s been wound tight in my body for weeks just unspooled in the most spectacular way possible.
He laughs too. A low, warm sound I’ve never heard from him. “I’m going to need a new desk.”
I push up and turn around. He’s flushed.
His hair is wrecked—my doing. His shirt is untucked, his belt hanging open, and he looks nothing like the razor-sharp attorney who shook my hand and said sit down, tell me why you’re here.
He looks like a man who just got the wind knocked out of him and enjoyed every second of it.
I reach up and straighten his collar. An absurd gesture, given the state of us. He catches my hand. Holds it.
“So,” he says. His thumb traces my knuckles. “What now?”
I look at him—this man who listened when my husband couldn’t be bothered, who caught details in documents I missed, who told me he’d override me to protect my grandmother and meant it, who just fucked me on his desk and is now holding my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Dinner,” I say. “You’re buying.”
He grins. A real one, wide and unguarded and nothing like Grant’s automatic flash.
“Yeah,” he says. “I can do that.”
I kiss him again—quick, light, the kind of kiss that promises more. Then I smooth my skirt, pick my underwear up off the floor, and tuck them in my bag because I’m a grown woman who just had exceptional sex on a mahogany desk and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.
My grandmother is safe. My husband is facing charges from every direction. The house is listed, the boxes are packed, and Grant’s tailored shirts are in a Goodwill bin on the South Side.
And the woman who was supposed to lose everything? She kept the only thing that mattered—and gained something she didn’t expect.
Forward. Everything forward. I’m just getting started.
Thank you for reading!