“You’ve been so vocal tonight,” I murmur, my voice dropping to a growl as I guide her head closer.
“I told you that your moans were the only thing I needed to hear. Now, show me. Use that mouth for something other than questions.”
I apply a firm pressure, guiding her toward the heat she’s been staring at.
“Take it,” I whisper, my heart thundering.
“Take all of me, and show me how much you wanted to find me.”
As she leans in, the first touch of her lips is like a lightning strike.
"Yes... just like that."
My head falls back against the headrest, my eyes snapping shut as a jagged groan is ripped from my throat. The sensation is overwhelming, a violent contrast to the cold, calculated world I usually inhabit.
I haven't slept with a woman in a long time. Since I started working for Elite, no woman has occupied my mind. But her. This is Madeline Emerson. The woman who tried to stab me, the woman who spends her days dissecting the damage I do, now willingly worshiping at my feet. Others would probably be terrified of having a scalpel pointed at their throat. I took it as a romantic gesture. And when she drew blood, it only made me crave her more.
The sheer power of it is intoxicating. Every time her hair brushes against my thighs, every time she hums in the back of her throat, it sends a fresh wave of fire through my veins.
My fingers tighten in her hair, not to push her away, but to anchor myself to reality. I am losing the control I pride myself on. She is taking it from me, inch by agonizing inch, and I’m letting her.
I look down, catching a glimpse of her kneeling there in the shadows of her own office. The sight of her, half-naked and completely focused on me is the most soul crushing thing I’ve ever destroyed.
I reach down, my thumb finding the pulse point under her jaw, feeling it race in a frantic, uneven rhythm. She isn't just following an order anymore; she’s starving for this.
"Look up at me, Mali. Don't you dare close your eyes. I want you to see exactly what you're doing to me,” a strained, broken growl leaves my throat.
I want to see the moment her pupils swallow the amber. I want to feel the exact second she stops being the doctor and becomes the storm.
My muscles are coiled tight, my body screaming for release, but I hold on, savoring the torturous friction, the wet heat, and the absolute silence of the building that has no idea what is happening in its heart.
She's not just my pathologist anymore. She's my religion. And tonight, this office is our cathedral.
I let out a low, guttural sound as the world narrows down to the heat of her mouth and the grip of my hands in her hair. My body tenses, every muscle coiling like a spring before the final, violent surge of release hits me.
I guide her through it, my breath coming in jagged, ruined gasps as the last of my control evaporates into the dark office air.For a moment, there is only the sound of our breathing. Heavy, rhythmic, and loud in the silence of the facility.
I don't let her pull away for long. I need her closer. I need to feel her skin against mine without the barrier of the floor between us.
I reach down, my hands sliding back under her arms, and I lift her with a sudden, powerful heave. She gasps, her legs instinctively locking around my waist as I stand up from the chair.
I carry her the two short steps to her massive oak desk, sweeping a stack of folders and a stray pen to the floor with one brutal movement of my arm.
I set her down on the edge of the desk. The wood is hard and unyielding, a different kind of cold than the morgue’s steel, but just as clinical. I stay between her knees, my hands moving to her waist, squeezing until I know I’m leaving marks again.
I want her to look at the room from this height. I want her to see her sanctuary through the lens of what we just did.
“Look at this mess, baby. Your reports, your neat little life... all on the floor.”
I lean in, my forehead resting against hers for a second, my eyes boring into her blown-out pupils. The amber is gone; it’s all black, all hunger, all mine.
I slide my hand up to her throat, not to choke, but to feel the frantic, terrified, and beautiful thrum of her heart. She’s trembling, her hands clutching the edge of the desk.
“I’m not done with you. Not even close.”
I look down at her, sprawled across the oak of her desk, and the desire that claws at my insides is no longer human. It's divine.
I want to possess every inch, every hollow, every secret her body keeps. If I could, I would carve new ways to be inside her, just to feel the sensation of her in every possible nerve. But I won't. I can’t.
