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Her pantyhose made her thighs glisten like cream—and ripped from the pressure of his fingers as he pushed her thighs even farther apart, spreading her for him, positioning her against the edge of the desk. He shredded the flimsy nylon with a single savage jerk until he could reach to run his fingers over her mound through the soft silk of her panties. She quivered, her voice breaking on a moan. She was bared for him, and he burned to see her like this: wild, ready, wet for him.
He tugged the panties aside and tasted her, traced the delicate pink of her folds with the tip of his tongue, delved deeper into her warmth until she was twisting, clawing at the desk, nearly sobbing as she pushed toward him. When his tongue circled her clit, she spasmed, raked her fingers over the blotter hard enough to tear the top sheet into furrows, and came with a ragged cry. He lingered on every wet burst, every damp trickle, licking it away until she gleamed, stroking her with his tongue until her cries bordered on agony.
“Thomas,” she gasped out, rigid and trembling. “Thomas!”
It was all the encouragement he needed. With one last taunting flick of his tongue, he withdrew long enough to unzip his jeans and push them down, freeing himself. Reaching into his pocket, he ripped open a condom and shoved it down his shaft. Once he was fully ensconced, he pressed against her moistness, raising a choked sound that he echoed. He held back for a trembling moment—and the anticipation made it that much sweeter when he rocked his hips forward and glided into her in a single smooth stroke.
She enfolded him in liquid fire, and he lost control.
He braced one hand to the desk, arching over her, and fell into the near-maddened cadence of his thrusts. His pleasure. Her pleasure, as her body clenched around him and she whimpered, begged, screamed. Screamed for him, so hot and uncontrolled beneath him, pushing back to meet him on every thrust.
As he joined her, he arched his neck back and all he could think, feel, and smell was Brianna. He was completely lost in her…and he didn’t even care.
Chapter Six
Brianna lay boneless on the desk, her cheek pressed into last month’s GAAP report.
She was pretty sure she was bent over the polished mahogany planking with her butt in the air like a five-dollar hooker, sweaty and wet inside her suit, Thomas’s weight crushing the air from her lungs and his cock slowly softening inside her.
He shifted with a groan, his voice gritty in her ears.
No, she was definitely sure. Hooker. Sweaty. Wet. That had just happened.
This time, she couldn’t quite bring herself to mind so much.
“Promise me,” he said, his voice rumbling through her, “that when I get up, you won’t go running out this time.”
“It’s my office,” she murmured, “so I have nowhere to run.”
He chuckled, but a moment later his weight eased. The emptiness when he withdrew from her made her moan, pressing her thighs together. It was as if her body missed him already, wanted him back, his thickness caressing her from the inside.
Moving slowly, carefully, she pushed herself up and tugged her clothing back into proper order. She was wickedly sore, her nipples hurting from crushing and dragging against the desk. Her stomach somersaulted. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her with a claiming intensity that did terrible things to her. She couldn’t believe she’d let him do that to her. Push her down over the desk and…and just go at her like that.
Only she could believe it, because it had felt too damned good. Even though any of her employees could have knocked on the door at any moment, she couldn’t bring herself to regret a thing.
She swallowed and set her skewed glasses right. “Well. I’m going to need a new ledger book.”
If she expected anything, it wasn’t the deep, full-throated laugh that rose from him. There was a warmth to it that made her shiver and a certain…earthiness. Not what she associated with thi
s sardonic, forceful man. Caught off-guard, she turned away quickly, fumbling with the scattered things on her desk. God, they’d moved the desk across the floor; it was now canted several inches on one side, and she was lucky her computer monitor hadn’t fallen off.
His laughter trailed into a chuckle. “Here. Let me help.”
He moved to her side, picking up her pencil cup and slotting a few Sharpies back into place. They both reached for an overturned picture frame at the same time; their hands bumped, but he got it first and flipped it upright.
Thomas went very, very still, looking at the picture with a sudden and almost terrifying blankness. The languid—albeit almost playfully awkward—warmth that had been brewing vanished.
“Brianna,” he said, spacing each syllable precisely, “who is that?”
The blood drained from Brianna’s face, leaving her dizzy. The picture was of her and Michael, the day of their wedding. He was trim and dashing in his tuxedo. She held her bouquet, smiling with such radiance she looked like a different person. She wore that frothy white dress that childhood said was supposed to make all a little girl’s dreams come true. No one ever told those little girls that past the dress were more dreams. Deeper dreams. Dreams that could so easily be cut short and taken away.
She snatched the picture away and turned it facedown. “It’s no one.”
His gaze moved to her hand. Without even thinking, she ran her thumb over the paler band of skin on her finger, the weight of the ring a strange absence. His eyes turned flinty.
“You’re hiding something.”
She turned her back on him. “No.”
