My clothes come off. She watches me strip with the same forensic attention she brings to evidence, cataloging. Her gaze tracks down my chest, the definition across my stomach, the line of dark hair below my navel, and when I push the trousers and shorts down together and step free, her eyes drop to my cock and stay there.
I'm hard enough that it aches, the length of me thick and straining, and the look she gives me is not shy and not clinical. It's the look of a woman taking inventory of what's about to be inside her and deciding she wants every inch of it.
Her hand wraps around my cock the moment I'm close enough, her fingers closing with a pressure that makes my jaw lock and my vision narrow to the point of contact. She strokes me once, base to tip, her thumb dragging through the moisture at the head, and the sound that comes out of me is low andhonest and belongs to the man underneath the fixer, the one who wants this woman with a greed that would horrify the version of me who walks through courtrooms.
"You're shaking," she says.
"I'm aware."
I grip her hips and lift. Her legs wrap around me, her back braced against the wall. I hold her weight with one hand under her thigh, the other gripping her hip, and the position puts us face to face. Close enough that her breath is on my mouth. Close enough that she'll see everything.
She's so wet that the head of my cock slides through her folds without resistance. I hold there, the blunt pressure against her entrance, letting her feel me right there. Every nerve in my body is pulling forward and I hold still because the waiting is how I hold the last thread of control, the last distance between the man who manages everything and the man who is about to come apart inside the woman who sees through all of it.
Her lips part. Her hips tilt toward me in an involuntary pull, and I wait one more second, and then I push inside her in one slow, continuous stroke.
The heat of her grips me, tight, the swollen aftermath of the first orgasm making her clench around me with every inch. The feel of it shuts down every remaining circuit that doesn't involve this. Her body around mine. The wet, consuming grip of her. My eyes close for a half-second before I force them open because I told her to watch me and I owe her the same.
She takes all of me. When I'm seated to the hilt she lets out a breath that shudders through her whole body, and the clench of her around me is so consuming that my hands shake where they hold her.
I set the pace. Slow and deep, using the wall for leverage, each thrust a full withdrawal that lets her feel every inch of me dragging against her before I push back to the hilt. The friction isconsuming, the tight, wet grip of her body resisting and yielding in the same stroke.
"Look at me," I tell her.
Her eyes find mine. Dark, glazed, furious, wanting. I hold her gaze and thrust deeper, angling her hips with the hand under her thigh, tilting her until the head of me drags against the front wall on every stroke. The angle change hits something that makes her gasp, sharp and involuntary, her nails biting into my shoulders.
"Right there," I say, and I keep hitting it, the same angle, the same depth, the same grinding pressure at the end of each stroke that puts the base of my cock against her clit. I can feel what it's doing to her. Her body tightens around me with every return, the flutter becoming a clench, and the rhythm I set with my mouth on her breast is the same rhythm I'm driving into her now, the promise kept.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders. I can feel her fluttering around me, residual spasms layering over the fresh pressure building from the angle, from the depth, from the grinding return that her body is starting to chase.
"There," she says, quiet, almost to herself. She's found something in my face, a fracture I can't feel from the inside. "That's real. That's not the fixer."
"No. It's not."
"Don't stop."
"Not a chance."
Her legs tighten around me, pulling me deeper. My hand slides between us. My thumb finds her clit, swollen and oversensitive, and the pressure sends a jolt through her that tightens her whole body around me. I groan, low and involuntary, my hips stuttering before I find my rhythm again.
My thumb works her in tight circles while I drive into her, and I can feel the moment the two sensations stack, the internal pressure and the external, because her breathing fractures andshe starts to clench in rhythmic pulses that squeeze me so tight my vision blurs at the edges.
The second orgasm builds in her body in ways I can feel before she can: the tightening, the flutter, the breath that catches at the top of each stroke. My thumb presses harder, matching the rhythm of my hips.
She breaks. Her whole body locks around me, thighs clamping tight, back bowing off the wall. She grips me in deep, rhythmic contractions that pull at me with every pulse, the wet heat of her clenching so hard around my cock that I have to lock my knees to stay standing.
The sound she makes is different from the first time. Deeper, rawer, pulled from somewhere behind her ribs instead of her throat. Her nails rake down my back hard enough that I'll carry the marks under my shirt tomorrow, and her hips grind against me through every wave, taking the pressure she needs, using my body the way I've been using hers.
The acknowledgment in it, that the man inside her is the man she knows he is and she's here anyway, choosing this, choosing me with every clenching pulse, is what takes the last wall down.
I bury myself deep, hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks she'll find in the morning. The orgasm hits with the force of a structure giving way, my hips jerking in short thrusts I can't control, each one pushing deeper while I come inside her in long, hot pulses. My forehead presses against her throat. I can feel her heartbeat against my mouth, fast and hard, and the intimacy of that, her pulse against my lips while I'm still pulsing inside her, undoes something in me that I won't be able to rebuild.
She's still clenching around me, and the pleasure is so acute it borders on pain.
The quiet after is enormous. The October cold has crept in through the windows while we weren't paying attention, and thekitchen holds us in the particular stillness of a house that has been listening.
I lower her until her feet find the floor. She stands unsteady for a moment, then catches herself against my chest. My hands loosen on her hips.
"The face you're making right now," she says against my shoulder. "That's the one. That's the face you made when your composure went and you couldn't get it back."
