His fingers tighten on my throat. Not enough to cut off air—just enough to remind me that he could.
“Raffaele D’Amico.” He growls his own name like a threat. “And I’ll kill anyone who dares touch what’s mine.”
Mine.
The word makes me clench around him. Makes me push back, meeting his thrusts, chasing the pressure building low in my belly.
I’m not his.
But my body tells a different story. My body is arching, grinding, desperate for more of whatever he’s willing to give.
He moves harder. Faster. His free hand grips my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises I’ll feel tomorrow.
I don’t care.
I want the bruises the proof that this happened. I want to press my fingers against them tomorrow and remember exactly how it felt to be?—
Tomorrow.
A flash of clarity cuts through the haze. Tomorrow I’ll wake up and realize what I’ve done. Tomorrow I’ll have to look at him across a desk and pretend this didn’t happen. Tomorrow I’ll regret every sound I’m making, every way I’m responding, every inch of control I’m surrendering.
And yet, I don’t care.
I reach back, trying to touch him, guide him, have some say in what’s happening to my own body.
He catches my wrist. Pins it against the small of my back.
“No.”
One word. Absolute.
His other hand tightens on my throat, holding me in place while he sets a rhythm I have no control over. Deeper. Harder. Taking exactly what he wants, exactly how he wants it.
This is what he likes. Having me helpless. Having me take whatever he decides to give. My pleasure, my body, my responses—all of it choreographed by him.
And the worst part?
I’m dripping for it.
“Bea.”
He groans it against my neck. Raw and wrecked. Nothing like the controlled man in the expensive suits.
I did that. I made him sound like that.
The thought tips me over.
The orgasm tears through me—harder than the first, deeper, the kind that starts in my core and radiates outward until I’m shaking, clenching, crying out against the glass. I feel him follow seconds later, his thrusts going erratic, his grip on my throat tightening as he spills inside me with a groan that vibrates through my entire body.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
His hand is still on my throat. His body still pressed against my back. The city still glitters beyond the window, indifferent to everything that just happened.
He releases my throat. Presses his lips to the curve of my neck—almost tender, completely at odds with what we just did. Then he pulls out slowly, and I feel the loss of him like a physical ache.
I lie there on the bed—exposed, with his release dripping down my thighs.
The city lights paint the ceiling in shades of silver and gold. I stare at them because I don’t know where else to look. Don’t know what happens now. Don’t know the protocol for this—for lying naked in your boss’s bed after he just fucked you against a window.
