"Is it working?"
"You tell me." His hand moves, and the precision of the movement is devastating, and the sound I make is involuntary in a way I don't permit. His response to the sound is a sharp intake of breath that tells me my loss of control affects his more than any deliberate action could.
"That's cheating."
"That's pattern recognition. You gave me data. I extrapolated."
"Extrapolate harder."
He does. His hands find the hem of my tank top and strip it and my bra off, and the air hits bare skin and his gaze drops tomy chest with an attention that is cataloging and hungry in equal measure.
His mouth follows, and the first contact of his lips against my breast shorts out the analytical process I've been using to maintain the upper hand.
I arch into him. The involuntary quality of it infuriates me. My fingers grip his hair and pull his head back, and the look on his face, glasses gone, hair destroyed, mouth wet, is data I will weaponize later and want now.
My hands go to his belt. The buckle gives under the mechanical efficiency of a woman who doesn't fumble, and the button and zipper follow in a sequence so practiced my fingers don't pause between steps. I shove his jeans and briefs down his hips in one pull and the sight of him, hard and straining, sends a pulse of heat through my belly that has nothing to do with clinical observation. I take him in hand, hot and thick against my palm, and his breath catches with the sharp involuntary intake of a man who just lost the last thread of composure he was holding.
The sound he makes is low and gratifying in a way that has nothing to do with generosity and everything to do with the power of reducing Tommy to a reaction he can't curate.
"Efficient," he manages, and the word is barely steady.
"I don't fumble."
"No." His hand covers mine, adjusting my grip, and the correction is so characteristically Tommy that a sound escapes me that might be a laugh if I had the breath for it. "You don't."
He strips off the rest of my clothes efficiently. I hook my legs around him, drag him closer, and when he pushes inside me the stretch of it, the fullness, bypasses every firewall I've built.
My head drops back. My fingers dig into his shoulders. The sound that comes out of me is raw and unfiltered and I don't recognize it as mine.
He stills. His forehead pressed against my collarbone, his hands gripping the edge of the desk on either side of my hips. I can feel the effort it costs him to hold still in the tension of his arms and the shudder that runs through his chest.
"Move."
He does, and the rhythm he sets is deliberate and devastating, each stroke a study in what makes my breath fracture.
He learns me in real time. Adjusts the angle when my hips shift. Reads the catch in my breathing the way he reads threat data, and each discovery builds on the last until my vision blurs and my vocabulary fails.
I refuse to let him run the show alone. I shift my weight, take control of the pace, and the sound he makes, low and broken, tells me his precision has limits and I just found them.
His ribs under my palms. The line of muscle in his back that flexes when I change the angle. The spot below his ear that makes his hips stutter when I press my mouth to it. The way his whole body responds when I tighten around him deliberately, and the look on his face when his control dissolves is worth every calculated risk I've ever taken.
"Cheating," he says against my neck, breathless, echoing my accusation from earlier.
"Pattern recognition." The laugh that tears out of him is short and helpless and real, and the vibration of it travels through every point where our bodies connect.
Then his thumb traces my cheekbone. The gesture is incongruent with everything else, so far outside the competitive framework that my rhythm stutters. A touch that doesn't demand or challenge or claim. It just finds me.
The gentleness of it, surrounded by everything that isn't gentle, produces a reaction in my chest that has nothing to do with the physical and everything to do with the terrifyingrecognition that Tommy is touching me like I matter outside of this.
I turn my face into his palm. The gesture is involuntary. I don't catalog it.
The power shifts back and forth, rapid and fluid. Every time he finds an angle that makes my nails leave marks, I counter by pulling him deeper, whispering something against his ear that makes his rhythm break.
We fight for control and the fighting is the point, and the moment when control stops being the point arrives without warning.
His hand moves between us, and the combined pressure of his fingers and the fullness of him inside me builds something at the base of my spine that my body recognizes before my brain does.
The tension coils tighter with each stroke, each shift, and I can feel him close too, the rhythm losing its precision, his breathing ragged against my throat, his hands gripping hard enough to leave bruises I'll find tomorrow.
