Curving my back, I slide my fingers through his curls, closing my eyes at the sensation of his tongue tracing the line up my pussy. Passion, like the candles on my cake, ignites within me, and I’m a burning torch atop this desk.
Make a wish, Wilder.
Blow me out.
Then we’re face-to-face, and I lick from his chin to his nose, tasting myself on his lips. Wilder growls against my mouth, kissing along my jaw, down my neck, skimming his teeth across my soaring pulse, and continuing the soft press of his lips over the top of my shoulder. As if my life depends on it, I lock my ankles around the back of his knees and pull him against my bare sex, needing the contact, dying for the friction.
Smoke gray eyes fall to my hands as I try to unbuckle his belt, but I’m too wound up—too hasty, too needy.
“Just do it,” I say, pulling him closer by the buckle.
He chuckles.
Wilder wrenches me to the edge of the desk, my bottom squeaking alongside the hardwood top. He plunges two fingers inside of me, pushing the heel of his hand into my clit. Pumping in and out, fucking me with his middle and ring fingers, Wilder hits my clit hard with every thrust.
The tiara falls from my head as I arch my back, grinding against Wilder’s hand as a firestorm explodes behind my closed eyes, jetting blinding heat through my limbs, down to my stomach, and around Wilder’s fingers. Yearning flattens any and everything but the pressure building to a peak within me, and I whimper, unable to find my voice.
“Happy Birthday, baby,” Wilder whispers roughly, pressing a small kiss at the corner of my mouth.
And that’s my undoing.
His eyes meet mine, and I clutch the front of his shirt, riding out the rush of pleasure that robs me of sense. Wilder guides me onto my back, the cool wood biting my heated skin, giving me the leverage to grind harder against his hand. He holds himself above me, unable to look away as he coaxes my body up, up, up, and then down, down, down.
My dress is sprawled beneath our bodies like a bed of stars. But as my heart slows and air fills my lungs again, the sound of my birthday party on the other side of the wall returns with reality.
I release my grip on his shirt to brush Wilder’s hair from his forehead and whisper, “You should have taken me home.”
We don’t return to the party with the same enthusiasm we ran off with.
My body is deliciously sleepy, wrung out, stretched out, and sated. But tequila turns on me, burning too hot for too long, and even suns die. Bright lights cut across the dance floor, triggering a sudden throbbing behind my eyes. The music is too loud, the swarm of moving bodies too congested, and the air is too suffocating after being locked away in the cool, quiet office alone with Wilder for so long. Even my dress is heavy on my bones, and my feet ache.
“I should have taken you home,” Wilder shares my sentiment, only half-joking.
Showing up to anything when he doesn’t want to is part of his job, whether it be with colleagues or the mafia. He knows how to suck it up and stick it out. But I want my bed, my candles, and his warm body pressed against mine under the sheets.
“It’s not too late.” I find his hand and take a step back toward the doors.
Except, the chance to leave together has come and gone.
“Where the fuck have you two been?” Lydia suddenly appears, grabbing me by the arm. She drags me toward the door, out of Wilder’s reach, and says, “Yael is waiting for you out front. You need to go back to the apartment—”
I glance back to see Wilder following us, but Talent catches up and says, “Wild, wait up.”
They share words, and for the second time in one night, Talent’s expression turns dark. Wilder folds his hands behind his head and closes his eyes, as if he’s trying to catch his breath. The transformation between the Wilder I’ve experienced tonight and the one who’s responsible for entire empires is physical. His posture turns defensive, his jaw sets, and after a lasting look at me, his eyes harden. Then he walks away.
“Wait,” I say, straining against Lydia’s grip. Her hold only deepens the more I fight. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Keep going.” She pushes me back into the hallway, hyper-focused on getting me out of the building despite my protest.
Panic clears my tequila haze, and I manage to twist away. I hold out my hands in a weak attempt to keep her at arm’s length. If Lydia truly wants me sent away, there’s nothing I can do to stop her. “You can’t do this every time something comes up. I deserve an explanation, Lydia. Have I not earned any trust or respect at all?”
How do I look to her? Drunk, freshly fucked in this dress of constellations and a tiara on my head?
Innocent?
Oblivious?
Perhaps desperate?
