Page 41 of The Silent Hour

"Because you let me eat your pussy anywhere." His hands slid up my thighs, pushing my dress higher until cool air hit my exposed skin. "But yes. The desk is a nice touch."

His fingers hooked into my ruined underwear and dragged them down my thighs with agonizing slowness. I stepped out of them, kicking them somewhere behind me where I couldn't see and didn't care. His hand returned to my hip, fingers splaying possessively across my skin.

Then he stepped back.

The loss of his heat made me shiver. I heard the soft clink of his belt buckle, the whisper of his zipper, and then the quiet rustle of clothing being adjusted. When he returned to me, it was with one hand on the small of my back, pressing me flatter against the desk, and the other guiding himself to my entrance.

He spread my legs and then pushed inside me in one long, devastating stroke, and my mouth fell open against the wood, a soundless cry tearing through me. Every inch of him filled me completely, stretching me in ways that bordered on pain before melting into something molten and perfect.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice cracking on the word. His forehead dropped between my shoulder blades, and I felt the sharp inhale of his breath against my damp skin. "You feel so fucking good.”

I couldn't answer. My fingers curled against the desk, nails scratching uselessly against the smooth surface as he held himself buried deep inside me. My walls clenched around him involuntarily, and he groaned, a sound so raw it vibrated through my spine.

He pulled back slowly—agonizingly slowly, dragging every ridge of himself against my sensitive walls. My hips bucked backward instinctively, chasing the fullness, but his hand pressed flat against the small of my back, pinning me in place.

"Not yet," he murmured, his voice a low rasp against my ear. "I'm not rushing this."

My nails dug into the wood. "Ethan—"

"Shh." His lips traced the ridge of my shoulder blade, featherlight, maddening. "Let me take my time with you."

He thrust forward again—still slow, but deeper this time, his hips rolling against my ass with a languidness that made my thighs tremble. The angle was devastating. I could feel him hitting places inside me that turned my vision white at the edges, but he refused to speed up. Every stroke was measured, controlled, drawn out until my breath came in broken little gasps against the desk.

"That's it," he breathed, his hand sliding up my spine to curl around the back of my neck. Not squeezing—just holding. Possessing. "Feel me, Julia. Feel every inch."

I did. God, I did. The stretch of him, the heat, the way my body clenched around him with each slow, grinding thrust. My forehead pressed against the cool wood. His free hand found my hip, fingers splaying wide as he guided my body into his rhythm. Not fast. Not hard. Just deep, rolling movements that had me clawing at the desk for something to anchor myself against.

The desk creaked beneath us, and I distantly registered the sound of paper crumpling somewhere beneath my chest—a deposition, maybe, or a client brief—but the thought dissolved the moment he shifted his angle and drove into me again.

His hand slid from my hip, fingers trailing along the curve of my thigh before dipping between my legs. I felt the pad of his thumb find my clit, not gentle, not rough, just insistent, circling the swollen bundle of nerves with the same practiced rhythm his hips were setting.

"Oh—" The word broke from me in a strangled gasp. Her knees buckled, but he was there, his body pressed solid against her back, holding her up with the sheer weight of him.

"I can feel you," he murmured against my ear, his voice ragged, barely recognizable. "You're so close. Come for me again."

I couldn't answer. My mouth was open against the desk, breath fogging the polished surface. His thumb worked faster, and his thrusts—God, his thrusts—lost whatever remaining thread of control he'd been clinging to. They shortened, sharpened, his hips snapping against my ass with a desperation that told me everything his words didn't.

His breathing fractured. I felt it in the way his chest stuttered against my back, the way his fingers trembled against my clit. He was close—closer than he wanted to be, and I could tell it was pissing him off because his jaw clenched against my shoulder, teeth gritting as he fought to hold on.

"Don't stop," I managed. “Keep your hand right there—"

His thumb pressed harder, circling faster, and I felt the orgasm building. My walls clenched around him involuntarily, and he groaned—a sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest—and then he was gone. The careful rhythm shattered. His hips drove forward once, twice, three times with a force that shoved me across the desk, my palms skidding across wood, and then he buried himself to the hilt and held there.

I felt him pulse inside me, thick, heavy strokes that made my entire body clench—and his hand never stopped. His thumb worked my clit through every spasm, pressing and circling while his release flooded me, and then I was coming again, a second orgasm crashing through me.

"Fuck—Ethan—."

He made a sound, something between a groan and my name—and his hand finally stilled, his thumb resting against my oversensitive flesh as his body shuddered through the last of it. His weight pressed me harder into the desk, his forehead between my shoulder blades, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

For a long moment, the office was filled with nothing but our ragged gasps. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air, mingling with his expensive cologne and the refreshing aroma of whatever was running through the ventilation system. Then his arms shifted, his sweat-slicked muscles flexing as he gathered me in closer, cradling instead of caging.

He kissed my temple softly and helped me straighten. I took a moment to gather my bearings then nodded toward the attached door that led to his private, half-bathroom on the other side of his office.

"Alright. Thanks for that, but I need to pee. No way in hell I'm letting a UTI plague me because of you and your office fantasies,|” I stated, my voice still husky from moaning his name.

"Were you not an active participant in this fantasy?"

At the look I gave him, he smirked but stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender, his shirt suit wrinkled and hair deliciously disheveled. I left him there and entered the bathroom.