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“You alright?” he asks.
“I’m grieving. That cot and I have been through things.”
He reaches over and pulls me across the floor toward him by the back of my thigh. Not gently. My hip skids on the mat and I end up half in his lap, and the laughing dies in my throat because his hand stays exactly where it landed.
“We don’t need a bed,” he says, “for what I have in mind.”
I open my mouth to say something, I’m not even sure what. But he kisses me instead, one hand cradling the back of my skull so my head doesn’t crack against the desk drawer.
The vibe in the room has changed.
On the cot, he was being careful with me. Down here, with the frame collapsed and my careful little arrangement of water glasses and towel abandoned up on the desk, he stops being careful.
He takes my wrists and puts them above my head, pinned against the drawer handles, and kisses down my throat to my chest. His mouth closes over one nipple and I moan.
“Nobody’s here,” he says against my skin, reading me perfectly. “Be as loud as you want.”
“There’s a guard on my back door.”
“Josef can’t hear for shit.”
“Kane—”
“Hush, sladkaya. The only thing I want to hear out of your mouth is what you want me to do to you.”
“I want you to fuck me on the floor of my own office,” I gush at once, “because I’ve been thinking about it since the second I woke up.”
If he was a nice man, he’d do exactly that.
Since Kane Makov is the exact opposite of nice, what he does instead is torture me with his mouth and fingers for three consecutive orgasms until there are tears drying on my cheeks.
Only then does he give me what I asked for.
He fucks me from behind with long, slow strokes while he plays with my clit.
Then he flips me onto my back, hikes my legs over his shoulders, and drives into me from his knees.
In the chair.
Bent over the desk.
Wedged into the corner at an angle that’s definitely gonna hurt tomorrow.
I come apart with my cheek pressed against the cinderblock wall. He’s not far behind me, palming my ass as he empties with his cock buried as deep as it’ll go.
When we come back to our senses and start to reassemble ourselves, I look over to see Kane frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“Your chair’s broken now, too.” He pushes it with one finger, but two of the wheels refuse to budge.
“Cheap furniture,” I sigh. “The whole industry’s rotten.”
Kane looks up at me and grins. “Anything else you’d like to break?”
The next morning, I order a steel-frame cot rated for six hundred pounds. I text Kane a picture of the shipping confirmation.
ME: Management has addressed the equipment issue.
KANE: Six hundred pounds?
