Sterling’s hands found my waist. His grip was firm, almost tight, like he was holding on to something that might move if he didn’t anchor it.
“You planned this,” he said. His voice was rough, lower than usual.
“I had a general outline,” I replied. “The specifics were flexible.”
“It’s a terrible idea.”
I shrugged against his chest. “I’m an optimist.”
Sterling made a sound that was half exasperation, half something warmer, and his hands slid under the back of my shirt, palms flat against my skin, and the contact—Sterling’s callused hands on my bare back—lit something low in my belly that had been smoldering since approximately the hallway kiss and was now very much on fire.
I reached into the desk drawer. The top one, left side, where I’d watched him stash things for weeks without comment because paying attention was free and intelligence was useful.
My fingers closed around the bottle of lube—the same one from his nightstand, because Sterling was nothing if notconsistent—and when I pulled it out, Sterling’s eyebrows went up.
“You’ve been in my desk,” he said, flat.
“I’ve been in your kitchen, your bathroom, and your personal space for weeks. The desk was just geography.” I popped the cap, slicked two fingers, and watched Sterling’s eyes track the movement with that focused, assessing look he gave everything, like he was running probabilities even now, even here, with my hand between his legs and his shirt on the floor.
His pants were still on. I fixed that. Got my hands on his belt, popped the buckle one-handed because I’d done this enough times to have the muscle memory, and dragged his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one smooth pull.
Sterling stepped out of them without being asked, his boots staying on because Sterling’s boots stayed on until someone told him otherwise, and the sight of him—Sterling Callahan, half-naked against the ops office wall with his cock hard and his jaw set and his eyes dark on mine—was something I filed under its own category: Better Than Advertised.
I got my hand between his thighs. One slick finger pressed against his ass, slow, careful, and Sterling’s breath caught. His hand found the wall beside his head, braced flat against the pine, and I watched his face as I pushed in—the rigid control, the set of his jaw, the way his eyes stayed on mine like he was determined not to look away even as his body opened around my finger.
“Breathe,” I said.
“I know how to breathe,” Sterling said, which was very him, and also complete bullshit because his chest was barely moving.
I crooked my finger. Found the spot. Sterling’s whole body clenched, his hand slapping against the wall, and the sound he made—low, rough, punched out of him against his will—was the most satisfying thing I’d heard in months.
“Jesus Christ,” he said again, his voice wrecked.
I added a second finger.
Sterling’s head dropped back against the wall. His throat worked, Adam’s apple bobbing, and I scissored my fingers slow, stretching him, feeling the heat and the tightness and the way his body resisted and then gave, resisting and then gave, like Sterling himself—fighting surrender until the fight wasn’t worth it anymore.
The third finger was where his control finally cracked. I pushed in slow, crooking, working the spot that made his thighs shake, and Sterling’s hand found the back of my neck and gripped hard, his fingers digging into my hair, and the groan that came out of him was long and ragged and entirely, devastatingly real.
His cock was hard against my stomach, leaking, and I wrapped my free hand around it and stroked once, base to tip, and Sterling’s hips jerked forward into my grip like he hadn’t meant to move and couldn’t stop himself.
“Fuck,” he said, rough against my temple.
“That’s the idea,” I said.
I pulled my fingers out. Slicked my cock with what was left on my hand, thick and warm, flipped him around to face the wall, and then lined up against him.
Sterling’s breath was coming fast now, his chest rising and falling under my palm where I’d braced it against the wall, and his eyes were dark and wrecked when he glanced back at me over his shoulder, and entirely present in a way I’d rarely seen them.
I pushed in. Slow at first, feeling the heat and the tightness and the way Sterling’s body opened around me, and then harder when his hand found my hip and pulled, his grip firm, demanding, and I drove into him with a thrust that knocked a groan out of both of us.
Sterling’s head dropped backward against my shoulder. His breath was hot against my neck, ragged, and his hands grippedmy hips hard enough to leave marks, guiding, pulling me deeper with each thrust.
I got a rhythm going, steady, my hips snapping against his ass, and the sound of skin on skin filled the small office along with Sterling’s breathing and the low, rough sounds he made every time I hit that spot inside him.
His cock was hard and leaking. I wrapped my hand around it, stroking in time with my thrusts, and Sterling’s whole body tensed, his head pressing back into my shoulder, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise.
“Right there,” he said, his voice rough and wrecked. “Don’t stop.”
