Page 29

Two fingers slide inside me, harder, more insistently than before. My muscles tense as he moves his index finger in exactly the right way, and I grip the desk.

“I’ve wanted to watch your face when you come for so fucking long,” he says, gripping my hair, pulling my head back so all I can see is him. His jaw is locked tight, as if he’s barely restraining himself. “Go ahead. I know you want to.”

I’ve never seen what Ben looks like when he wants something desperately, until now. It’s that, as much as anything, forcing me to give in at last. I let go with a small cry, my eyes closing, the world going black and blissful as his fingers maintain their pace.

“God, I love that,” he rasps.

I reach for his belt, then flick the button of his pants before tugging down the zipper. I slide my hand inside his boxers and he gives a single, sharp inhale.

He is hot, hard as steel, long and wide. Air hisses between his teeth as I run my palm over him, once, twice. I can already imagine the feel of it along my tongue, the greedy way he’ll watch.

His eyes fall shut for a moment before they open and he takes charge, pushing me back on his desk then wrenching my skirt up around my waist. He glances down at me, splayed out before him. “I knew it,” he says, sounding almost angry as he tugs at my wisp of a thong, letting it snap back against my skin. The sting it leaves behind is pleasure and pain at once. “I fucking knew it was something like this under that skirt.”

He reaches past me. I hear the telltale crinkle of foil, a reminder that this is common for him and that I’m undoubtedly not the first female who’s been fucked on this desk. It will bother me later, but right now, it’s washed away by a heavy fog of anticipation.

He grabs one knee and holds it aloft as he lines himself up. “You’re sure, Gemma?” he asks, his voice low, desperate.

“You’re still talking too much,” I reply, and he thrusts. The fit is tight, exquisite and painful at once, and he’s only halfway in.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You okay?” His voice is all gravel now.

“Yes,” I groan, and then I grab his hips—a silent plea for more—and he pushes in the rest of the way.

He holds still for a moment, eyes squeezed tight, waiting for me to adjust to his size. It’s only when I arch my hips that he begins to move, sliding slowly in and out. I never come twice in a row, but…I think I’m going to. The way he’s focused on me, the fullness of it, even the hint of pain—somehow, they conspire to create something bigger and brighter and better than anything I’ve felt before. One handed, he unbuttons my blouse, still pushing inside me. His fingers slip into the cup of my bra, pinching my nipple. It hurts and threatens to topple me right off the edge at the same time. I cry out involuntarily, and he flinches, trying not to come. His brow is damp, his face strained.

“Beg,” he commands. His thrusts come fast and then stop.

I’m seconds away.

“Oh, god.” I arch against the desk. “Please.”

“Please what?” His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck me harder. I’m so close.”

He does. He gives me everything, and then he leans over and finds my mouth, kissing me with the same degree of force, and I meet him—kissing, biting his skin in my desperation.

“I’m going to—” is all I get out before it’s on me again, rolling over me while he thrusts jerkily once, twice, groaning, against my ear.

His weight falls atop mine, and we are as close as we could possibly be, both of us gasping for breath. I turn my nose toward his neck and breathe him in, the smell of his soap mingling with his sweat.

I wish we could stay like this forever.

It’s a bizarre thing to think, clearly the product of oxytocin, a hormone known to cause stupidity, but I feel lost when he finally pulls away.

He ties off the condom and puts it in the trash while I push my skirt down and rebutton my blouse.

I have no idea how to gracefully extricate myself from this situation. I want to leave and I want to stay, and I wish I could press pause on this moment just long enough to figure out which of those things is the right response.

He meets my eye, a small grin on his face. “Told you you’d beg.”

I stiffen. It’s not like I expected him to write me a love poem now, but I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready for him to act like it was all a fucking game, and why I ever expected anything more of Ben is beyond me. It’s a lesson I’ve had hammered home more than anyone alive.

It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

I walk straight out of his office, grabbing my purse from the conference room and heading for the elevator. I can’t imagine why I’m so bitterly disappointed. I can’t imagine why I feel so beaten and bereft. I haven’t actually lost anything.

The elevator doors slide open and I step inside.