CHAPTER TWELVE #3
He thrust forward again—still slow, but deeper this time, his hips rolling against my ass with a languidness that made my thighs tremble.
The angle was devastating. I could feel him hitting places inside me that turned my vision white at the edges, but he refused to speed up.
Every stroke was measured, controlled, drawn out until my breath came in broken little gasps against the desk.
"That's it," he breathed, his hand sliding up my spine to curl around the back of my neck. Not squeezing—just holding. Possessing. "Feel me, Julia. Feel every inch."
I did. God, I did. The stretch of him, the heat, the way my body clenched around him with each slow, grinding thrust. My forehead pressed against the cool wood.
His free hand found my hip, fingers splaying wide as he guided my body into his rhythm.
Not fast. Not hard. Just deep, rolling movements that had me clawing at the desk for something to anchor myself against.
The desk creaked beneath us, and I distantly registered the sound of paper crumpling somewhere beneath my chest—a deposition, maybe, or a client brief—but the thought dissolved the moment he shifted his angle and drove into me again.
His hand slid from my hip, fingers trailing along the curve of my thigh before dipping between my legs. I felt the pad of his thumb find my clit, not gentle, not rough, just insistent, circling the swollen bundle of nerves with the same practiced rhythm his hips were setting.
"Oh—" The word broke from me in a strangled gasp. Her knees buckled, but he was there, his body pressed solid against her back, holding her up with the sheer weight of him.
"I can feel you," he murmured against my ear, his voice ragged, barely recognizable. "You're so close. Come for me again."
I couldn't answer. My mouth was open against the desk, breath fogging the polished surface.
His thumb worked faster, and his thrusts—God, his thrusts—lost whatever remaining thread of control he'd been clinging to.
They shortened, sharpened, his hips snapping against my ass with a desperation that told me everything his words didn't.
His breathing fractured. I felt it in the way his chest stuttered against my back, the way his fingers trembled against my clit. He was close—closer than he wanted to be, and I could tell it was pissing him off because his jaw clenched against my shoulder, teeth gritting as he fought to hold on.
"Don't stop," I managed. “Keep your hand right there—"
His thumb pressed harder, circling faster, and I felt the orgasm building.
My walls clenched around him involuntarily, and he groaned—a sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest—and then he was gone.
The careful rhythm shattered. His hips drove forward once, twice, three times with a force that shoved me across the desk, my palms skidding across wood, and then he buried himself to the hilt and held there.
I felt him pulse inside me, thick, heavy strokes that made my entire body clench—and his hand never stopped. His thumb worked my clit through every spasm, pressing and circling while his release flooded me, and then I was coming again, a second orgasm crashing through me.
"Fuck—Ethan—."
He made a sound, something between a groan and my name—and his hand finally stilled, his thumb resting against my oversensitive flesh as his body shuddered through the last of it.
His weight pressed me harder into the desk, his forehead between my shoulder blades, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.
For a long moment, the office was filled with nothing but our ragged gasps.
The scent of sex hung heavy in the air, mingling with his expensive cologne and the refreshing aroma of whatever was running through the ventilation system.
Then his arms shifted, his sweat-slicked muscles flexing as he gathered me in closer, cradling instead of caging.
He kissed my temple softly and helped me straighten. I took a moment to gather my bearings then nodded toward the attached door that led to his private, half-bathroom on the other side of his office.
"Alright. Thanks for that, but I need to pee. No way in hell I'm letting a UTI plague me because of you and your office fantasies,|” I stated, my voice still husky from moaning his name.
"Were you not an active participant in this fantasy?"
At the look I gave him, he smirked but stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender, his shirt suit wrinkled and hair deliciously disheveled. I left him there and entered the bathroom.
I handled business, wincing at the tender ache between my thighs as I cleaned up.
I didn’t have to worry about his swimmers.
Ethan had gotten a vasectomy after the twins were born.
I still remembered driving him home afterward, his face pale as he clutched an ice pack between his legs, insisting it was nothing compared to what I'd endured.
I adored my girls with every fiber of my being, their smiles and contagious giggles that filled our home, but two miracles were enough for me right now. I would have a complete breakdown if I had to start over from conception.
I washed up, splashed ice-cold water on my burning cheeks, and smoothed the fabric of my dress over my still-trembling thighs.
Crouching, I opened the cabinet beneath the marble sink, and retrieved the emergency cosmetics bag I'd stashed there forever ago, my little secret insurance policy against looking freshly fucked on the days we played in his office. Much like this one.
My fingers worked quickly, detangling the wild mess of auburn waves that tumbled past my shoulders and down my back, wincing as the brush caught on a knot where Ethan's fingers had twisted and pulled.
The mirror reflected lips swollen from his bruising kisses, and a flush that spread from my cheeks down my neck to disappear beneath my neckline.
The door swung open without warning and Ethan's reflection appeared behind mine, his eyes raking over my body like physical touch, desire still smoldering beneath the surface of his composed exterior.
He had put himself back together as best he could, now stepping forward to use the sink to finish up.
I didn't move when he stepped up behind me, his expensive cologne wrapping around me like a second embrace.
"You're perfect," he said simply, a muscled arm around my waist, his dark eyed gaze locking on mine in the mirror. "Most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
I rolled my eyes, but warmth curled through my chest anyway. "You're full of it."
His mouth brushed my temple. "Full of you, bella. There's a difference."
I smiled and shook my head. "Okay, Romeo, calm down. Where are my underwear?"
"You were wearing some?" The corner of his mouth quirked up in an infuriating half-smile that still made my heart stutter after all these years. He pulled off looking genuinely confused.
"Ethan," I stated his name with feigned exasperation.
"I will get them if you insist." He sighed dramatically and released his hold, fingers trailing reluctantly across my hip. "And here I was thinking of framing them in a Murano glass display case. It would be the perfect conversation piece whenever new clients drop by from now on."
"Get out." I laughed the sound echoing against the marble tiles as I shooed him with fluttering fingers.
He caught my wrist mid-air, his thumb pressing gently against my racing pulse before he brought my palm to his mouth. His lips, still warm and slightly rough, lingered there a moment too long, dark eyes never leaving mine before he let go, flashing me a smile.
When he finally backed away to retrieve my missing garment, I returned to the task at hand, making myself look presentable again.