A Taste of What Comes Next
She hadn't intended to linger past midnight, but after the last guests dissolved into the night, she remained—collecting abandoned bottles, dragging damp cloths across sticky surfaces—fabricating usefulness while waiting for him.
Waiting to whisper goodnight, to let her gaze cling to his face, to hunt for the smallest flicker that might betray he'd been haunted by her too.
But he was nowhere.
Room after hollow room, as she drifted toward his office, something wild fluttered beneath her ribs—anticipation,
or something darker.
That's when she caught it.
A ragged, breathless sound. A guttural moan unfurling through the silence like poisoned incense.
She froze, blood rushing to her skin, heat flooding her cheeks, her neck. Fingers trembled as she took reluctant steps forward until she reached his office door, betrayed by its slight opening.
She silenced the warning screaming in her mind.
Peering through that sliver of space, the scene before her struck with the dual shock of ice and flame.
He was ravaging her.
Bent savagely over the desk, his fingers digging into yielding flesh, leaving white imprints blooming crimson at the edges.
His expression taut with concentration, jaw clenched, gaze locked on where they joined, perspiration gleaming at his temple, driving mercilessly as the woman fractured beneath him. No gentleness—only raw hunger, dominance, desperate relief.
And Christ, he was magnificent.
Every muscle coiled and defined, shirt plastered to his back, the fabric translucent with sweat, hair darkened and damp at the nape.
He remained oblivious to her presence as she stood paralyzed, captivated, her core liquefying with unwanted heat, her clit pulsing with each thrust. Wetness gathered between her thighs, her body betraying her with visceral, primal response.
She should flee, yet her eyes remained transfixed on his commanding grip, the flex of his forearms, the controlled power in his hips. Her insides clenched painfully with each brutal sound, her breath shallow, trapped in her throat.
Then revelation struck.
She craved to be splayed across that desk.
Craved his bruising hold, the bite of his fingers into her flesh, his relentless assault, his predatory focus consuming her.
She yearned to shatter his restraint, to feel him lose control inside her, to be the reason sweat beaded on his brow, to hear her name torn from his throat.
And then—
He lifted his gaze.
Directly into hers.
And never paused.
Just that midnight stare—burning through her, pinning her in place—while he never broke rhythm, methodically destroying someone else before her eyes.