Chapter 6 #2
His command was low, a challenge. He didn’t move, letting the tension coil between us.
My mind was a blank slate, wiped clean by adrenaline and desire.
All I knew was the heat of his skin under my hands, the possessive ache between my own legs, and the terrifying, exhilarating truth: I wanted the consequences.
I wanted the mess of him. My hands slid from his chest, over the defined ridges of his stomach, down to the waistband of his trousers.
My fingers found the button. His breath caught, a sharp, audible intake.
I looked him dead in the eye as I worked it open.
The metal gave way with a quiet snick. The zipper followed, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet hall.
I didn’t look down. I kept my gaze locked on his, watching the control in his face fracture piece by piece.
I pushed the fabric aside. He was thick, hard, already leaking at the tip.
I wrapped my hand around him, my fingers not quite meeting.
He was hot, velvety steel in my grip. A low groan tore from his throat, and his head fell back, his throat working.
“Look at me,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
His head snapped forward, his eyes blazing.
“Little analyst,” he breathed, the nickname a caress and a taunt. “Playing with fire.”
“You told me to prove it.” I stroked him, once, a slow slide from root to tip. His whole body jerked. “This is me proving it. I’m not afraid of the fire. I want to burn with it.”
That did it. The last vestige of his restraint shattered.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he spun me around and pressed me face-first against the cool wallpaper.
The floral pattern was rough against my cheek.
His body covered mine, pinning me in place.
One hand splayed across my stomach, holding me firm, while the other rucked up my skirt.
His fingers found the waistband of my panties and yanked.
The fabric tore, a cheap, satisfying sound.
The cool air of the hallway hit my bare skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his palm cupping me.
I cried out, arching back against him. He was everywhere, overwhelming.
His teeth grazed the shell of my ear. “You want to be responsible?” he growled, his voice thick with need. “Then take it. Take everything.”
His fingers delved, finding me wet, ready, clenching around nothing.
He swore, a filthy, beautiful word. He notched the head of his cock at my entrance, and for a second, he paused.
The only sound was our ragged breathing, the pulse thundering in my ears.
This was it. The precipice. Not a void of chaos, but a chasm of pure, desperate need.
“Virgil,” I whispered, a plea. He drove into me in one deep, brutal stroke.
The world dissolved into sensation. The stretch, the burn, the shocking, perfect fullness as he buried himself to the hilt inside me.
A choked sob escaped my throat. He stilled, his body rigid against mine, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades.
“God, Anna,” he rasped. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”
Then he moved. There was no gentle rhythm, no careful build.
It was a claiming, a punishment, a benediction.
Each thrust slammed me into the wall, each withdrawal left me empty and aching for more.
His hand slid from my stomach up to my breast, squeezing through my blouse, his thumb finding my nipple and pinching hard.
Pleasure, sharp and bright, lanced through me, mixing with the deep, driving friction of him inside me.
The corridor, so recently a place of terror, was now a cage of our own making.
The only reality was the slap of skin, the wet sound of our joining, his grunts in my ear, my own broken moans echoing back from the stone walls.
I was coming apart, unraveling at the seams, and he was the only thing holding me together.
“That’s it,” he snarled, his pace becoming frantic, erratic. “Come for me. Let go. I’ve got you.”