After several quiet minutes, she exhales slowly against my chest before tipping her head back enough to look at me. Her lips are swollen, while faint pink marks stain her skin where my hands held her too tightly earlier.
“I should go home,” she says.
Every instinct inside me rejects the idea immediately. “Stay here tonight.”
“Mmm. Temptin’ offer,” she murmurs, though exhaustion still shadows her eyes. “But I have to get up early for the adoption event tomorrow.”
My arm tightens around her. “You should stay anyway.”
A small laugh leaves her. “You say that like I’d sleep tonight after all this.”
“Fair point.”
She traces her fingers slowly across the front of my chest before looking back up at me. “The shelter needs me there early. Jules will absolutely lose his mind if I’m late tomorrow.”
“Then security will take you home and bring you back in the morning.”
Her eyebrows lift. “That wasn’t a suggestion, was it?”
“No.”
The corner of her mouth twitches again. “Bossy.”
“Alive.” My fingers brush slowly along her waist. “I prefer you that way.”
Maggie shakes her head while looking up at me like she still can’t fully decide whether I terrify her or make her feel safer than anyone else ever has.
Maybe both.
My hand slides along her waist while keeping her against me.
“Viktor will drive you,” I say finally, leaving no room for argument, even though both of us know she’s too exhausted to fight me anymore tonight.
Her fingers splay across my abdomen. “Bossy.”
“Protective.”
“That sounds suspiciously similar in your world.”
A rough laugh leaves me before I lower my mouth to hers again, kissing her slower this time, like neither of us actually wants the night to end. The anger between us has burned downinto something far more complicated now—attachment, need, and the understanding that walking away from each other is no longer an option.
Eventually, I force myself to stand and pull her up with me. The office looks destroyed around us. Torn lace on the floor. Papers knocked sideways across the desk. Crystal glasses knocked over.
Maggie notices the destruction too and lets out a quiet, embarrassed laugh before covering her face briefly with one hand. “Oh, sweet heaven.”
I slide my hand around her wrist gently and lower her hand from her face before brushing a kiss across her knuckles.
I watch her pull her jeans back on before slipping into her torn shirt again. Then she bends to retrieve the ruined lace panties from the floor, muttering under her breath while she stuffs them into her back pocket with what remains of her dignity.
“My panties are officially deceased,” she mutters.
“That situation appears permanent.”
Maggie presses her lips together while she tries unsuccessfully to hold back a horrified laugh, tugging her shirt into place and smoothing her hair enough to survive walking through a mansion full of observant security guards.
Meanwhile, I retrieve my own clothes from the floor and shrug back into my ruined shirt, the front hanging open where several buttons are now missing. Neither of us looks remotely composed. Especially not me. Because every time my eyes return to Maggie standing in my office with swollen lips, tangled hair, and disheveled clothes, the need to drag her back against thewall and fuck her until neither of us can think straight hits me all over again.
It takes real effort to force myself toward the door instead.
