Chapter 7 #2
"That's not fair," I manage, my voice coming out breathier than I'd like to admit. "You can't look like that and expect me to maintain eye contact. That's—that's basic human psychology. You're essentially a visual stimulus designed to short-circuit rational thought."
"I can expect whatever I want," he counters smoothly, his hands dropping to the button of his jeans with deliberate slowness, as the motion like it's the most important thing in the world.
His fingers work at the fastening with infuriating calm, and when he starts dragging the zipper down, the sound of it might as well be thunder in the heavy silence between us.
"Because right now, you're going to do what I tell you to do.
No negotiation, no itinerary adjustments, no corporate objections. Just you, following my lead."
The words settle over me, and I know with startling clarity that I have absolutely no intention of arguing.
The jeans hit the floor, and I have approximately three seconds to process the reality of his size before he's back over me, his weight settling between my thighs, and the feeling of his bare skin against mine makes me gasp his name like a prayer.
"Say it again," he demands, one hand cupping my face, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip.
"Thrall," I breathe, and he rewards me by kissing me again, deep and claiming, his hips rolling against mine in a rhythm that makes coherent thought impossible.
His hand slides down between us with deliberate intent, and when his fingers find me slick and ready, positioned exactly where I need them most, he makes a sound of pure male satisfaction that reverberates through my entire body, a low, rumbling growl that I feel in my bones, , in the deepest parts of me that have surrendered completely to him.
"This wet for me already," he rumbles against my mouth, his breath hot against my lips, his tone dripping with dark possession. "And I've barely touched you. Barely begun."
The observation hangs between us, heavy with promise and threat, and with a spike of desperate need that he's right, he's been holding back, restraining himself, and the thought of what happens when he stops is enough to make me dizzy.
"Then touch me," I demand, my voice hoarse and unrecognizable to my own ears, my filter completely shattered by him, the heat radiating off his skin, the primal reality of what's about to happen.
The corporate event planner is gone. There is only this, only him, only the desperate ache that demands satisfaction. "Stop talking and touch me."
His laugh is dark and deeply pleased, a sound of genuine amusement at my desperation, and then his fingers slide inside me, thick and careful and absolutely overwhelming, moving with surprising gentleness despite the tension coiled through his massive frame.
I arch up with a broken sound that might be his name, that probably is his name, my body responding to him with an honesty that my voice can no longer manage.
He works me open with devastating patience, his fingers stretching and preparing while his mouth claims mine, swallowing every desperate sound I make.
By the time he withdraws his hand I'm trembling, soaked, incoherent, and he's looking down at me with fierce possession that should terrify me but instead makes me clench with need.
"Ready?" he asks, his voice strained now, his control fraying at the edges.
"Yes," I gasp out. "Yes, please, Thrall, I—"
He slides into me in one slow, relentless push, and the stretch is overwhelming and perfect. I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders, and he freezes immediately, his entire body going rigid.
"Breathe," he commands, his voice rough. "Just breathe, Romee. You can take it."
I inhale, to relax, and he pushes deeper, his hand sliding under my hips to angle me better, and somehow it works, somehow my body adjusts and accepts and takes him until he's fully seated and we're both shaking with the effort of staying still.
"Look at me," he demands, and I force my eyes open, meet his burning amber gaze. "You're perfect. You're taking me perfectly. Now I'm going to move, and you're going to let me hear every sound you make."
He withdraws slowly and thrusts back in, deeper this time, harder, and I shatter immediately, crying out his name as my body clenches around him.
He doesn't stop, doesn't give me time to recover, just sets a relentless rhythm that drags me higher and higher until I'm incoherent, begging, completely undone.
"That's it," he growls, his voice pure gravel, his hips driving into mine with increasing force. "Let go. Give me everything."
I come apart again, and this time he follows, his roar of completion rattling the windows as he buries himself deep and holds, his entire body shuddering over mine.
We stay locked together for long moments, both breathing hard, and when he finally moves it's to carefully withdraw and roll onto his back, dragging me with him until I'm sprawled across his chest like a blanket.
"Stay," he rumbles, his hand stroking down my spine, and I'm too wrung out to argue, too sated to care that I'm supposed to be organizing breakfast logistics in approximately six hours.
I drift off to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and strong under my ear.
I wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and the immediate, disorienting realization that I'm tangled in sheets that cost more than my monthly rent. The bed beside me is empty, the sheets cool, and for one horrible moment panic floods my system.
Then I see the note on the pillow next to me, weighted down by a heavy gold pen with Thrall's company logo etched into the side.
I pick up the note with shaking hands, my body aching in places I didn't know could ache, and read the bold, slashing handwriting:
Romee—
Handling the morning session myself. Your clipboard is on the desk. Breakfast is being delivered to the cabin at 8am. Eat it, or I'm canceling the afternoon skewer order.
Also, you're quitting your job today. We'll discuss your new position as Horde Tech's Director of Corporate Operations over lunch.
This is not a request.
—T
I see the note, torn between outrage at his high-handed arrogance and a dangerous flutter of something that might be hope.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it and find a calendar invitation for 12pm today: "Employment Negotiations & Lunch."
The audacity. The absolute nerve.
I'm grinning like an idiot as I reach for my tablet to start reviewing his offer.