Chapter 15 Orla
ORLA
The next morning, I arrive at the office exactly seventeen minutes early, which is precisely fourteen minutes later than my usual arrival time. My hair is still damp from the shower Thraka and I shared, and my blouse has a button missing that I didn't notice until I was already in the elevator.
I'm falling apart.
My office looks the same as it always has. Minimalist desk, ergonomic chair, framed degrees on the wall that prove I'm qualified to be here. The window overlooks the city, all those buildings full of people following rules and protocols and five-year plans.
Thraka arrives at the office forty-three minutes later, carrying two coffees and a bagel he's already half-eaten. He's wearing the same suit from yesterday, slightly more wrinkled, and there's a visible tear in the shoulder seam that definitely wasn't there before.
He grins when he sees me through the glass wall of my office, that wide, unrestrained grin that makes my stomach flip.
I stand and lock my door.
His grin widens.
"Little Manager," he says when I let him in, setting the coffees down on my desk with careful precision. "You have that look in your eyes. The one that means you're planning something."
"I'm celebrating," I announce, reaching up to loosen his tie. "Properly celebrating. The way we should have done it last night before we got interrupted by the security guard making his rounds."
"The parking garage was proper celebration," he protests, though he's already backing me toward the desk, his hands finding my hips with unerring accuracy. "Very proper. You made sounds that echoed off the concrete."
"That was the appetizer." I pull the tie free completely, the silk sliding through my fingers. "This is the main course."
I loop his tie around my own neck, knotting it loosely. His eyes go dark, that predatory focus that makes me feel like prey in the best possible way.
"You wear my colors," he rumbles, his voice dropping into that register that vibrates through my chest. "Like a claiming."
"Maybe it is." I hop up onto the desk, scattering carefully organized papers. A stapler hits the floor. I don't care about the stapler. "Maybe I'm claiming you right back."
He growls, actual growls, and steps between my legs, his hands sliding up my thighs beneath my skirt. His palms are rough, calloused from whatever he did before he showed up here and destroyed my perfectly ordered existence.
"The door is locked?" he asks, though he's already kissing my neck, his teeth scraping against sensitive skin.
"Locked. Blinds closed. Calendar blocked for the next two hours as a strategic planning session."
"Very strategic." He bites down gently on my collarbone, making me gasp. "What are we planning?"
"How to survive until lunch without anyone noticing we're both completely disheveled."
He laughs against my skin, the vibration traveling straight through me. His hands work at my blouse buttons, more careful this time than he was in the supply closet or the shed or any of the other places we've ended up tangled together.
"I like your buttons," he murmurs, focused on his task with the intensity he usually reserves for intimidating the sales team. "Small and stubborn. Like you."
"I'm not stubborn. I'm focused."
"You argued with me for forty-five minutes yesterday about the correct way to format a memo." He gets the last button free and pushes the fabric aside, his eyes traveling over the simple black bra I'm wearing underneath. "Very stubborn."
"You wanted to use all caps and three exclamation points. That's not professional communication, that's shouting."
"It gets attention." His thumb traces the edge of my bra, the touch light enough to make me shiver. "Like this gets my attention."
He leans down, pressing kisses along the curve of my breast, his breath hot through the thin fabric. My head falls back, my composure unraveling with each touch.
"Thraka." His name comes out breathless, desperate.
"Tell me what you want, Little Manager." He looks up at me, his eyes gleaming with something possessive and tender all at once. "Give me an instruction."
"Take it off."
He reaches around, unhooks my bra with surprising dexterity for someone who routinely breaks keyboards by typing too hard. The fabric falls away and he makes a sound low in his throat, something appreciative and hungry.
"Beautiful," he says simply, reverently. "Every sharp edge and soft curve."
Then his mouth is on me, hot and insistent, his tongue circling my nipple until I'm gripping his shoulders for support. He takes his time, lavishing attention on first one breast then the other, using his teeth just enough to make me gasp.
My hands find his hair, tangling in the wild strands. He's still wearing too many clothes. I tug at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders, then work at his shirt buttons with shaking fingers.
"Impatient," he murmurs against my skin.
"Efficient. There's a difference."
He straightens enough to let me strip his shirt off, revealing all that green muscle underneath. I run my hands over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath my palm.
"I love your sharp edges," he says suddenly, his voice serious. "The way you cut through problems. The way you organize chaos. The way you look at me like I'm a puzzle you need to solve."
"I love your brute force. The way you just... exist without apology. The way you make me forget about spreadsheets and protocols and what I'm supposed to be doing."
He captures my mouth in a kiss that tastes like coffee and possession. His hands slide up my thighs again, pushing my skirt higher, his fingers finding the edge of my underwear.
"These," he says against my lips. "Also in the way."
"Then do something about it."
He hooks his fingers in the fabric and pulls, the sound of tearing elastic loud in the quiet office. I should protest. Those were expensive. But I'm already reaching for his belt instead, fumbling with the buckle until he takes over, making quick work of his pants.
"The desk can hold us?" he asks, glancing down at the polished surface skeptically.
"It's rated for two hundred pounds. You might be pushing it."
"Then we'll be careful." He lifts me slightly, positioning himself between my thighs. "Or not careful at all."
He enters me in one smooth thrust and I bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound that wants to escape. He's big and overwhelming and perfect, filling me completely.
"Not quiet, Little Manager," he rumbles in my ear. "Let me hear you."
"The walls are thin. People will know."
"Let them know." He pulls back and thrusts again, deeper this time. "Let them know you're mine."
The possessiveness should irritate me. Instead it makes heat pool low in my belly, makes me clench around him until he groans.
He sets a rhythm that's going to shake papers off the desk, that's going to leave marks on my hips where he's gripping me. I wrap my legs around his waist, my heels digging into his back, trying to pull him impossibly closer.
"Touch yourself," he commands, his voice rough. "I want to watch."
I slide my hand between us, finding the bundle of nerves that's already singing with sensation. He watches my face as I work myself, his eyes dark with hunger and something deeper.
"That's it," he encourages, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. "Take what you need from me."
The pleasure builds sharp and bright, spreading through my limbs like fire. I'm close, so close, and he knows it because he leans down to capture my mouth again, swallowing my moans as I come apart around him.
He follows moments later with a groan that vibrates through both of us, his grip on my hips tightening as he spills inside me. We stay locked together, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together in the aftermath.
"Strategic planning session," he finally says, his lips quirking. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Aggressive negotiations," I counter, my voice still shaky. "We're testing the new department protocols."
He laughs and pulls out carefully, reaching for the box of tissues on my desk to clean us both up. It's surprisingly tender, the way he takes care of me, gentle touches at odds with the roughness of moments before.
I slide off the desk on wobbly legs, trying to reassemble my clothing. My blouse is missing a button. My bra is somewhere on the floor. My underwear is destroyed. I look like exactly what I am, someone who just had sex on their desk at nine thirty in the morning.
"You're beautiful when you're disheveled," Thraka says, watching me with obvious appreciation. "All messy and undone."
"I look like a disaster."
"You look happy." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Relaxed. Like maybe you've figured out that perfection is overrated."
I want to argue but I catch my reflection in the darkened computer screen. He's right. Despite the mess, despite the chaos, I look lighter somehow. Less brittle.
"Maybe," I admit, reaching up to straighten his tie where it still hangs around my neck. "Maybe perfect is boring anyway."