I slide off his lap, sinking to my knees between his spread thighs. He watches me through hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
"You don't have to—" he starts again, but the words dissolve into a deep, guttural moan as I take him into my mouth.
I bob my head, taking him deep, hollowing my cheeks around his shaft. The taste of him—salt and musk and man—floods my senses. His hands come up to tangle in my hair, not guiding, just anchoring himself to me as I worship him with my tongue and lips.
I lose myself in the act, in the power of reducing this strong, controlled man to base need and desperate sounds. His thighs tremble beneath my palms. His breathing grows ragged, punctuated by curses and my name—always my name, like a prayer or a confession.
But Ian isn't content to just receive. He tugs gently on my hair, urging me back up. I release him with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting my lips to his cock for one obscene moment.
"I want more," he rumbles, his hands already reaching for the hem of my shirt. "I want all of you."
I stand on shaky legs, allowing him to undress me. He takes his time, peeling my clothes away layer by layer, his eyes drinking in each new expanse of skin like a man dying of thirst. He kisses every inch he reveals—the hollow of my throat, the curve of my breast, the jut of my hipbone. By the time I'm bare before him, I'm trembling with need, my skin flushed and hypersensitive, my thighs slick with arousal.
"You're fucking perfect," he breathes against my skin, his hands spanning my waist. "So goddamn beautiful it hurts to look at you."
He pulls me back into his lap, settling me astride his hips. I can feel him, hard and hot, pressing against my entrance. The head of his cock slides through my folds, gathering my wetness, teasing my clit until I'm whimpering.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his hands gripping my hips, holding me still, his eyes searching mine for any hesitation.
In answer, I sink down onto him, taking him to the hilt in one smooth motion.
We both cry out at the sensation, our voices mingling in the charged air. He fills me completely, stretching me just to the point of exquisite ache. I feel him everywhere—in my core, in my chest, in my fucking soul.
"Fuck, Claire," he groans, his forehead pressed against mine. "You feel like heaven. Like you were made for me."
I start to move, rolling my hips, finding a rhythm that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. Each stroke sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through me. Ian meets me thrust for thrust, his hands guiding me, his mouth hot against my throat, sucking marks into my skin that I'll feel tomorrow.
His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they're tight, aching peaks. When he lowers his head to take one in his mouth, I nearly come undone. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth—it's too much and not enough.
"Ian, please..." I don't know what I'm begging for. Harder, faster, more.
He complies with all three, his hips snapping against mine with bruising force. One hand slides between us, finding my clit with unerring precision. He circles it with deft fingers, applying just the right pressure to make my vision blur at the edges.
"That's it," he urges, his voice a dark command in my ear. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come around my cock."
The pressure builds inside me, coiling tighter and tighter at the base of my spine, until it finally shatters. I come with a broken cry of his name, my body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, my nails digging half-moons into his shoulders.
But he's not done with me. As the aftershocks still ripple through me, he stands suddenly, lifting me with him. I cling to his shoulders, my legs wrapping around his waist, as he sweeps his desk clear with one arm. Pens and papers scatter across the floor, forgotten.
He lays me down on the cool wood, never breaking our connection. The new angle allows him to thrust deeper, hitting that spot inside me that makes lightning arc through my veins. My oversensitive body sparks back to life, building toward another peak I didn't know was possible.
"You're going to come again," he tells me, his voice brooking no argument as he drives into me with relentless precision. "And I'm going to watch every second of it."
His thumb returns to my clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. I'm helpless beneath him, caught in a storm of sensation, my body no longer my own but an instrument he plays with masterful skill.
"Ian, I can't—I can't—" I gasp, my back arching off the desk.
"You can," he growls, his rhythm faltering as his own release approaches. "Come with me, Claire. Now."
The command in his voice tips me over the edge. I shatter again, harder than before, my vision whiting out as pleasure crashes through me in violent waves. I feel him follow, his cock pulsing inside me as he spills himself with a hoarse shout of my name.
We stay like that for a long moment, sweat-slicked and panting, our hearts thundering against each other. Ian presses his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his breath ghosting across my face. His weight on me is grounding, keeping me from floating away on the tide of endorphins flooding my system.
"Claire, I..." He starts, then stops, seeming to search for words.
I place a finger against his lips, silencing him. "Don't. Don't say anything."
Because I know what comes next. The regret, the awkwardness, the realization that this was a mistake. A moment of weakness, of need, that can't be repeated.
