“Oh god—” Her thighs tremble. “It's—Alistair, it's so?—”
“I know,” I say. “You're doing so well.”
“It's too big.”
“And you’re so wet,” I say. “Stay with me.”
She stays with me.
I work it with extraordinary patience—a fraction at a time, the vibration steady on her clit, watching every flicker of her face for the line between too much and exactly enough. She is gripping the desk so hard her knuckles are white. Her breathing is ragged. Every time I give her a little more she makes a sound and tightens and I stop and hold and wait and feel her adjust, feel her body open to it incrementally, her resistance dissolving into something hungry and urgent until all of a sudden she opens up for me. My own pleasure at this makes me groan. I’m rock hard—so hard it hurts.
“Please,” she breathes. “More—please?—”
I give her more.
“Oh—ohfuck—Alistair?—”
“Still here,” I say.
“More,” she says. “I want—I need?—”
“Tell me,” I say.
“All of it,” she says, and her voice has abandoned every pretense. “I want all of it. Don't you dare stop.”
I give her all of it.
She cries out, loud, completely unguarded, the sound filling the office, and I work it steadily, the vibration unrelenting on her clit, watching her face come magnificently apart. She moans as the climax seizes her body, and her back arches off the desk. Her thighs clamp around my hand. Her whole body shudders through the orgasm in long rolling waves and I draw it out until she is gasping and gripping my forearm with both hands.
When the last of it moves through her she sags forward, spent, her forehead dropping.
I set the toy aside, straighten, and look at her, flushed and undone, barely holding herself up on the desk, my jacket somewhere on the floor, the city glittering below us, and I feel something light up in my chest.
My turn.
“Up,” I say.
Ivy looks at me. Her eyes are glazed. “What?”
“I'm not done with you,” I say.
Something moves across her face, not quite alarm, not quite desire.
“Alistair,” she whispers. “I don't know if I can.”
“I know you can,” I say. “You're a good girl. You can take it.”
I set her down from the desk, her legs unsteady beneath her, which I note with considerable private satisfaction, and turn her toward the window. Her palms go flat against the glass instinctively, the cold of it sharp against her skin, and she inhales.
I press against her from behind.
The heat of her after the cold glass makes me throb. She is slick and swollen and still trembling faintly and when I push inside her—slowly, giving her time—and the sound she makes goes straight through me.
I hold still for a moment.
Just this. Her. The city below. Her skin warm under my hands.
Then I begin to move.
