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“Fuck” is the last word to leave his lips before his mouth is on mine again in a crashing blow, and my body is in the air.

Up and out of the chair in one swift move, his superhero muscles make a return as he lays my back on the desk with ease and climbs up on top of me.

I circle his hips with my legs, fighting to get closer for more friction, but he pops the connection of my ankles and pulls back to home in on another target. With hurried hands, he pulls my shorts and my panties down in one motion.

I gasp when he dives forward and seals his mouth to my pussy without delay or explanation, and my back bows off the desk. I can feel the paper of my receipts sticking to the skin at my waist, but I ignore it, focusing on the sensation between my thighs instead.

He licks and sucks and flicks, and I squirm from side to side, wanting more and less all at the same time. I’m in overload and suffering, and I can’t wait to topple over the edge when he sees fit to push me.

It’s never been like this for me—not in twenty-eight years of life and nine years of sexual activity—and I know with a piercing certainty there’ll be no going back.

He’s an eater. A real one. Not a guy who does it for the sake of performance or because he thinks he has to, but a guy who can’t get enough of the taste, the smell, the power.

He groans and sucks and licks, and I know he’d stay there all night if I let him. But I crave the fullness of connection, the unparalleled climax of one done in synchronicity with a partner.

“Shane, stop.” He backs away immediately, his eyes worried until they see the desperation in mine. “I don’t want to come without you inside me.”

Pushing back from his knees, he stands, undoing his belt and the button of his pants and shoving them and his black boxer briefs down in one motion. His cock is hard and jutting, and when he casually puts his hand to the length of it and strokes once, I damn near pass out on the desk.

He’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. Tan skin, stark muscle, raw confidence. I want him to fuck me right into oblivion.

“Do you have a condom?” I somehow manage to ask through the haze of obsession.

He smiles, pulling it seemingly out of thin air, and he doesn’t hesitate to slip it down the length of him.

Thank everything. A relieved exhale skitters out of my lungs. I’m on birth control—my mom put me on it as soon as I started high school out of fears of teen pregnancy and all manner of paranoia—but I don’t like the idea of not being as safe as possible when I don’t know his sexual history like I probably should.

I watch avidly, my hips moving with impatience against the desk as he rolls the condom on, lifting my shirt enough to play with my own nipples. He must be jealous at the sight, though, because he leans forward immediately, pushing the shirt out of the way and taking a taste for himself.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says against the center of my chest before gliding up my body, climbing onto the desk, and settling his weight on top of me.

My heart thrums in my chest at the feel of the head of his cock finding its seat, and then in one smooth stroke, he’s inside. My back arches, and a moan fills the otherwise quiet space.

A sudden sheen of moisture in my eyes surprises me. I’m not sad—not even fucking close—but the overwhelming feeling of contentment is almost too much for my system to handle.

I didn’t think I’d have this feeling. This closeness. This trust. I didn’t think it existed, truth be told. I felt like life was a series of hidden agendas and shallow dalliances. I thought, for me, my career and my time with Alfred would be the main well from which I filled my soul.

I didn’t imagine this at all, and in a way, I’m glad I didn’t. It’s even more amazing to have not seen it coming.

Shane’s face falls into the corner of my neck, and I hold on to his shoulders like they’re a lifeline.

“You okay?” he asks there, the vibration from his voice cascading down to my toes.

“Better than,” I whisper back, which is answered by the touch of his lips to the same skin.

Ever so slowly, he starts to move in and out, and I wrap my legs around his hips until my heels hook into his thighs. My legs aren’t long enough to hook my own ankles together with the span of his torso.

“Fuck,” he growls as his tempo speeds up slightly. He gets onto his elbows beside me, his hands finding my neck and squeezing gently. It’s not a choke—it’s a hold. It’s tender but direct possession. A subtle sign of his desperation that’s a balm to my own.

I don’t know what reasons have been holding him back from being the initiator in our progression, but I can say with certainty after tonight, it wasn’t that he didn’t want me like I wanted him. He’s consumed.

“Shane,” I whisper as my climax takes control, willing me over the edge whether he’s ready or not. His tempo increases, and I cry out as it crashes over me like a chaotic storm of lightning and thunder and hail and wind.

He grunts, groans, and then yells into the charged space as he follows me closely into paradise.

It’s the most amazing sex I’ve ever had. Not because it was flashy or fancy or contorted in precarious positions. Quite the contrary. It was awkward and challenging and backed by a hard, unforgiving desk and sticky paper.

But it was emotionally charged in ways I can’t even comprehend yet, and I’m not sure, tonight, I ever will.