Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
He pulls back for a moment, his eyes raking over my body like he’s memorizing every inch. “On the desk,” he commands, and I don’t hesitate. I climb onto it, my skirt riding up to expose my thighs, and he’s there in an instant, pushing my legs apart with a force that makes me gasp.
His fingers slide under the edge of my panties, and I can feel how wet I am, how ready. He growls, low and deep, and then he’s pulling them down, tossing them aside like they’re nothing. His mouth is on me in an instant, his tongue lapping at my clit like it’s the sweetest fucking thing he’s ever tasted.
“Oh God,” I moan, my hands tangling in his hair as he eats me out like a man possessed. His tongue is relentless, flicking and circling in ways that make me see stars. I can feel the pressure building, coiling tight in my belly, and I know I’m so close.
But then he stops, pulling back with a smirk that makes me want to scream. “Not yet,” he says, his voice rough with need.
He stands up, unbuckling his belt quickly, making my head spin. His thick, hard cock springs free and I can’t help but reach for it. I wrap my hand around the base and give it a slow stroke.
He groans and thrusts deeper into my hand. Before I know it, he pushes me back onto the desk and spreads my legs wide. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, and I can feel how wet I am, how ready. I hold my breath as he slides in slowly, inch by torturous inch, until he’s buried to the hilt.
“Fuck me,” I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders as he starts to move. His thrusts are deep and hard, each one hitting the spot inside me that makes me see stars.
“Come for me,” he growls, his voice rough with need. And I do, my body convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me. He follows me over the edge, his cock pulsing inside me as he fills me up with everything he’s got.
We collapse onto the desk, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and cum. His breath is hot against my neck, and I can feel his heart pounding against my chest.
“We’re definitely not pretending this didn’t happen,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm.
“No,” I agree, my voice barely above a whisper. “We’re not.”
The next two hours are a slow-motion trainwreck as I attempt to put on my “work” face and ignore the electricity pulsing between us. Every time he walks past my cubicle, the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention. He barks orders with his usual snarl—“Print those contracts, Hollister,” “Conference room, five,”—and I volley them right back.
By eleven, I’ve edited three decks, fact-checked six pages of legal jargon, and survived two meetings with only minor bloodshed. The city council liaison tries to corner me by the Keurig, his eyes flicking to my blouse, but before he can say a word, Declan appears at my elbow.
“Ms. Hollister,” he says, voice low. “Walk with me.”
The liaison melts away. I walk at his side, my heels echoing his boot steps in perfect counterpoint.
He never looks directly at me, but as we approach the glass-walled conference room, he leans just close enough to say, “You’re good at keeping secrets.” His breath is hot on my ear, and the words slide into me like a knife.
“Part of the job description, I think,” I answer, keeping my tone as cool as possible.
He almost, almost smiles.
We hit the conference room and he’s back to business, bulldozing through the agenda with zero patience for small talk. But I see the way his fingers drum against the table whenever I speak, and how he tracks every motion, every shift in my seat.
Lunch is a bottle of Smart Water and a Luna bar. He skips food altogether, just stands in his office, staring out at the city, fists clenched behind his back. I catch him doing this three times. By two-thirty, I’m convinced he’s going to implode.
At four, the admin pool starts thinning. By five, it’s just me, Declan, and the ghost of Mrs. Thomas, whose retirement photo still sits at the front desk like a guardian spirit. I begin closing down for the day, double-checking his next-day calendar, when he appears in my doorway. He’s leaning on the frame, arms folded. He’s lost his tie and unhooked the top button of his shirt.
He doesn’t knock. He just says, “You’re staying late.”
I look at the stack of files on my desk. “Is it a problem with the software invoices?”
“No.” He shakes his head, jaw flexing. “I need to talk to you.”
“Of course, Declan,” I say, standing up. Since it’s after work hours, I use his first name and hold my breath, waiting to see if he objects. When he lets it slide, I slowly exhale.