Page 34 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

I circle her.

We’re in my office, but it’s not quite right: the walls are higher, the ceiling vaulted, the windows stretched so wide the sky outside is more blue than any color that exists in the real world.

There's no furniture besides the desk and her chair.

She’s silent. She’s expectant.

“Why are you here?”

“Why do you think?” she smirks. “I don’t want professionalism, Ethan. I want the plane again.”

I don’t answer.

I don’t need to.

She knows, and I know she knows, and that’s why neither of us blinks.

I stand behind her while the light moves across the floor, elongating the shadows of her legs, which are so easily uncrossed when I push them apart with the slow pressure of my palm.

The fabric of her skirt is weightless, so that when I drag it along her thigh, it’s more a displacement of suggestion than of solid matter.

My mouth is on her neck in an instant, both hands cupping her breasts through the thin cotton, pressing her harder into the edge of the desk until she gasps… a gasp she means me to hear.

Her smile's savage.

She grabs my wrist and pulls my hand to her mouth with such naked urgency that it’s being devoured.

She bites hungrily, as if she’s needed this since before she met me, as if I’m her first and last meal.

I slide my hand up her thigh, parting the folds of her underwear, tracing the heat beneath with the blind precision of someone who never asks twice.

The sound she makes is indecent: a muffled yelp, instantly stifled by my fingers pressing deeper. She’s dripping; wet seems too small a word for it. I press the heel of my palm against her, and she grinds her hips into it, demanding, insistent, close to unseemly.

The need is mutual.

The desk creaks beneath her as I drive her harder, my hand and her body are twin levers on either side of a fulcrum, my lips on her jaw and the silk of her throat, my other hand pinning her wrists behind the small of her back.

She’s panting now, making sounds that never belonged in an office, not even in the most disreputable corner of a closed conference room.

She bends forward, and the blouse comes untucked, a line of bare skin running from her nape to the waistband of her skirt, and I want to mark it, claim it, so I run my teeth along that shallow hollow until she’s shivering, her whole body trembling.

Yes, surrender too, but only because she’s already won.

She turns and kisses me, wet and desperate, her tongue working looser, slurring in my mouth with a taste that isn't entirely hers or mine.

Addy clings to me; she pulls me in by the hair and scrapes her teeth along my ear, whispering a string of obscenities so urgent they collapse into sound. She’s begging now, but not for mercy, not for kindness, only for more. For annihilation, for release.

She erupts hard around my fingers, pulse fluttering in her throat, the sound of it, my name in a broken gasp, makes me want to tear the world apart, or at least the seams of her blouse. She's unbound now, muscles gone liquid, eyelids fluttering closed as the aftershock ripples through her.

I watch her come undone, the most competent woman I’ve ever interviewed, boneless and panting, dress shirt peeled open, body still arched for more.

And then she looks up at me, eyes glazed, as if she’s decided something monumental in the interval between peaks.

She says my name again, softer, a benediction or maybe a dare, and then she reaches, and my belt is gone, and my trousers drop to my knees.

She drags me out with both hands, greedy, daring me to stop her.

I don’t stop her.