4. Cat #4
“Desk is fine. Desk is perfect. Don’t you dare move us now.”
He lifts me onto the blotter like I weigh nothing.
My skirt rucks up my thighs. He steps between my knees and kisses me harder, all teeth and apology and hunger, and I shove his shirt up so I can get my palms on the warm plane of his stomach.
Muscle jumps under my touch. He makes a sound I’ve never heard during a chess game.
“Three weeks,” he says against my mouth. “Three weeks of watching you across that board and not being allowed to-”
“You were allowed. You just lost too often to negotiate terms.”
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.” I bite his lower lip. “Take my clothes off before I do it myself and ruin the buttons.”
He peels my blouse open with more haste than grace. A button ping-skips across the desk and vanishes under a chair. We both glance at it, then at each other, and his grin is sharp and delighted.
“I’ll buy you another.”
“You’ll buy me three. Keep going.”
Bra next. His mouth closes over my breast like he’s been planning the route for twenty-one days, hot, wet, sucking hard enough that my head tips back and a file folder slides off the desk behind me in a soft avalanche of paper.
Something heavier follows: a glass paperweight, from the sound of the crash, and the shatter of it on the floor makes us freeze for half a second.
“Don’t care,” I say before he can apologize to the furniture.
“Don’t care,” he agrees, and shoves my skirt the rest of the way up.
My underwear is gone with one sharp tug that makes me yelp, then laugh.
He drops to his knees between my spread thighs like prayer was invented for this exact desk and this exact woman, and then his mouth is on me, no teasing preamble, just the flat of his tongue dragging through my wetness like he’s starving and I’m the first meal in a month.
“Oh, fuck, Max-”
He hums against my clit and the vibration punches through me.
Two fingers push inside without asking this time, because we’re past asking, past careful, past the wedding-night choreography of strangers.
He curls them and sucks and I fist his hair hard enough to hurt, grinding against his face while papers keep whispering off the desk onto the wreckage of the paperweight.
“Gonna come,” I warn, breathless. “If you keep, oh god-”
“Then come.” The words are muffled against me. “I’ve been waiting. Give it to me.”
I shatter with a cry that echoes off the bookcases, thighs clamping around his head, pulsing on his tongue in helpless waves. He works me through it until I’m twitching and shoving at his shoulder, oversensitive, laughing weakly at the ceiling.
He stands. His mouth is shiny. His eyes are black. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand and then kisses me so I taste myself, filthy and triumphant.
“My turn to ruin you,” I manage, reaching for his belt.
“Please.” The word comes out raw. “Cat, please-”
Belt. Zipper. I shove his pants and briefs down just far enough. He’s thick and leaking, so hard it looks almost painful. I wrap my hand around him and stroke once from base to tip, spreading the wetness, and his forehead drops to mine with a shudder.
“In me,” I say. “Now. I’ve been empty for three weeks of your stupid hovering and I am done being empty.”
“Far be it from me to deny a direct order.”
He notches himself against me and thrusts home in one smooth, devastating slide. The stretch steals my breath. My nails dig into his shoulders. He bottoms out and stays there, shaking, both of us adjusting to the reality of finally after twenty-one days of almost.
“Finally,” he breathes into my ear, reverent, his voice breaking on the word. “Finally, Cat. Fuck. You feel, I’ve been starving the whole month-”
“I know.” My voice cracks. “Me too. Move. Please move.”
He does. Slow at first, deep, grinding strokes that drag against every nerve I’ve got, then harder when I wrap my legs around his waist and dig my heels into his ass.
The desk scrapes an inch across the floor.
More papers fly. A binder hits the ground with a thud that would’ve made me wince in any other context.
“Harder,” I demand. “I’ve been winning chess against you for three weeks. I can take a desk.”
He laughs, breathless, and gives me harder.
The angle changes when he hooks an elbow under one of my knees and opens me wider.
Every thrust punches a sound out of me I don’t bother swallowing.
His other hand braces on the desk beside my hip, knuckles white.
I can see the gold flecks in his eyes even in the low lamp light, can see the way his control is fraying thread by thread.
“Touch yourself,” he orders, rough. “I want to feel you come on my cock. I want it twice. Minimum.”
“Bossy for a man who just lost at chess.”
“Tactics.” He thrusts particularly deep and my argument dissolves into a moan. “You taught me to press an advantage.”
I slide my hand between us and rub my clit in tight, frantic circles.
The dual sensation, him filling me, my own fingers sparking, winds me up absurdly fast. He’s watching my face like it’s the only endgame that matters.
Sweat darkens the collar of his half-open shirt. A drop of it falls onto my sternum.
“Max, I’m-”
“I know. Let go, Cat. I want to watch you come undone with my name in your mouth.”
The second orgasm hits harder than the first, ripping through me with a sob.
I clamp down around him so tight his rhythm stutters.
He fucks me through it in short, punishing strokes, murmuring filth and praise in a mix of English and Italian I only half catch, bella, that’s it, take it, finally finally finally, until his own control snaps.