My breath fogs the glass.
He presses my hands flat against it — both of them, above my head — his body covering mine from behind, the heat of him against my back a brutal contrast to the cold on my front. His mouth finds the back of my neck, my shoulder, the place below my ear that he has learned like a language.
"Don't move your hands," he says.
"Or what?"
"Or I stop."
I don't move my hands.
He reaches around — patient, certain, finding me with his fingers and working me open until I'm pressing my forehead to the glass and breathing in shallow bursts and the city below blurs at the edges.
"Cazzo, you're so wet," he breathes against my spine. Fuck. Like it's done something to him. "Sei incredibile." You're incredible.
"Luca—"
"Tell me what you want."
"You know what I want?—"
"Tell me anyway." His fingers slow. Deliberately. Infuriatingly. "Use your words,dottoressa." Doctor.
The Italian undoes me completely. My whole body clenches around his fingers. My forehead drops to the glass.
And for approximately five seconds, I stop being a board-certified trauma surgeon and become something much simpler.A woman who will say absolutely anything this man asks her to say.
"I want you inside me." My voice comes out wrecked. "Right now. Please."
Thepleasedoes something to him — sharp intake of breath, hands tightening on my hips, a sound low in his throat that he doesn't bother suppressing.
"Say it again," he says.
"Please."
He pushes inside me in one long, deep stroke.
Then he fucks me.
Hard, deep, relentless — his hand braced beside mine on the glass, his other hand sliding around to the front, fingers finding my clit with unerring precision, circling with maddening patience while he drives into me from behind.
I bite down on my own fist because the alternative is screaming and there are people on the other side of that door and I have a reputation and absolutely none of that matters.
Pressure builds on two fronts at once, until I can't tell one sensation from the other.
Until it's all just him.
Just this.
Just the ruthless focused attention of a man who has learned exactly how to take me apart and is using every single thing he knows.
I am looking at my own reflection in the window — flushed, undone, completely wrecked — and his face over my shoulder, jaw tight, eyes dark, watching me with the expression of a man holding himself together by a thread and choosing, deliberately, not to cut it yet.
"Look at yourself," he says. Low. Rough. Against my ear. "Look at what you look like when I'm inside you."
I look.
I stop breathing.
