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I let him spin me around until I’m facing the cabinet with my palms landing on the cold metal in front of me and my forehead resting on the top. I let my eyes fall closed in eager anticipation of feeling him inside me for what will probably be the last time.

He shoves my jeans further down until they refuse to go any lower. My calves are pinned by the denim, and I can’t spread my legs any wider than they currently are. Behind me I hear his belt buckle come open, the drag of leather through loops, the rasp of a zipper coming down. Every one of those small ordinary sounds lands in my body like he’s already ramming into me.

He grips my hips and tilts them up, arching me for him. I follow his direction willingly.

Then he stops.

Hand on my back, cock poking against me, breathing hard without moving. I understand what he’s giving me. This is my one chance to tell him I don’t want this. He’s furious and he’s done with me and he’s about to fuck me anyway, but not before I’ve had the opportunity to tell him to stop.

I can feel how much he wants to plunge into me. I also know he’d pull his pants back up and leave this office if I tell him to.

"Don’t stop."

My voice is low and husky but there’s nothing uncertain in it.

He pushes into me in one long unbroken stroke and I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

The stretch of him from this angle is enormous with my thighs held together by the denim. I’m dripping but my body isn’t ready the way it usually is. There’s been no slow build-up with his fingers stretching and working me open before he plows into me. It aches from the first inch in a way that makes me see stars.

I utter a sound I don’t recognize, high and wounded. Behind me he grunts something guttural as his fingers press so hard into the meat of my hips I know I’ll be able to see the shape of them tomorrow. He holds still with the whole thick length of him inside me, his breath hot against my nape, waiting for my body to accept him.

Then he starts to move.

He fucks me the way I know he’s been wanting to fuck me for eight days of not looking at me, and I take every stroke because I’ve been aching for him to do it for those same eight days. Every deep thrust bangs the cabinet against the wall. Every drag back is worse than the push forward because for a second, I’m empty and I hate being empty of him.

His other hand has left my hip and gone up under my shirt to close over my breast from behind, fingers twisting my nipple roughly, working me through my bra and the hungry, cracked noise that pulls from my chest isn’t something I knew I was capable of.

"Look at what you do to me." His voice is behind my ear, torn and rough.

Not you're beautiful. Not you're perfect. Not anything he’s said in bed before. What he talks about now, in the heat of the moment, is what he can’t forgive me for and can’t stop wanting either. The whole furious mess of it in seven words while he’s buried inside me.

I make so much noise. Grunts and groans of pleasure and pain, howls full of heartbreak. My cheek is still on top of the cabinet and my palms are sliding on the sides as they grow wet with sweat. Every deep stroke is grinding my hipbones into the edge of the metal, and I don’t care about any of it. All that matters is the spot where his shaft sinks into my body repeatedly, the rough way he’s toying with my breast, and how impossibly good it feels to be taken apart by him.

In the midst of the intense pleasure I’m feeling, tears start pouring from my eyes. Running down along my cheek and into the corner of my mouth. No sobbing, just quiet crying as my body is about to detonate.

I don’t know if it’s grief or shame or the rush of endorphins, or all three of them tangled together with no way to pull them apart.

Somehow, without a word from me, he knows I’m close and his rhythm changes. Deeper, harder, angling to hit my G-spot on each pass as the storm inside me heads for critical mass.

It doesn’t gather the way it usually does. It’s not tightening my core. Instead, it’s expanding, growing into some enormous thing, filling me up from the inside, pushing out against my ribs, ready to crack me open when it lands. I press my forehead harder into the cabinet, waiting for it.

I go over on a sob.

Not a cry or a scream. An ugly, grieving sob, torn out of my chest in time with every powerful squeeze of my body around him. My face is wet with tears, and my shoulders are shaking while my body wrings itself out on his cock.

It doesn't take long for him to follow me.

I feel the sudden crack in his control, his whole body locking up against my back. Then his teeth sink into the meat of my shoulder, biting down through my shirt as he groans against the fabric, hot breath flowing over me. His hips drive forward one final time and hold, and I feel him come inside me in deep hard pulses, his hand on my breast squeezing convulsively with everyone.

For a while we just stay frozen in position.

His forehead has dropped onto the back of my shoulder. His breath is heaving against my back. We’re still joined, the silence speaking louder than anything either of us could say right now.

Then he pulls out of me.

I feel him step away. Zipping up his jeans. I hear the sound of the belt buckle catching. I don’t turn around to face him. I don’t move at all. I stay exactly where I am, pants still around my calves, waiting to see what happens next. Hoping desperately that he’ll have something to say to me.

The door doesn’t slam behind him. He closes it with a quiet careful click that slashes me to ribbons. So many fantasies about him fucking me in this office and none of them ever ended this way.