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I groaned as she stroked me from base to tip, her grip perfect—firm but not too tight, twisting slightly on the upstroke in a way that made my knees weak.

"Careful, little fox. It's been days of wanting you."

She smiled, something wicked and feminine in the expression as she circled her thumb over the sensitive head, collecting the moisture there.

"Good. I don't want careful. I want you desperate."

"Mission accomplished," I growled, withdrawing my fingers from her heat to grasp her wrist, stilling her movements before I embarrassed myself.

"Protection," I managed, some last vestige of rationality breaking through the haze of desire.

"Pill," she gasped, legs wrapping higher around my waist, pulling me closer so the head of my cock nudged against her entrance. "And I'm clean. You?"

"Yes." I'd never taken a woman without protection before, had never trusted enough, wanted enough. The realization should have alarmed me, should have triggered caution. Instead, it only intensified my need. "You're sure?"

In answer, she guided me to her entrance, tilting her hips to take just the tip inside. "Completely."

I grasped her hips, holding her steady as I pushed forward, sinking into her in one long, slow thrust that tore groans from both of us.

The sensation was overwhelming—tight, wet heat gripping every inch of me, with nothing between us, just skin against skin, the most intimate connection possible.

"Fuck," I breathed, holding still with monumental effort, forehead pressed against hers. "You feel..."

"Like heaven," she finished, inner muscles fluttering around me.

"Like coming home."

I began to move, setting a deep, measured rhythm, each thrust bottoming out inside her. Her legs tightened around me, ankles crossing at the small of my back, changing the angle so I hit that perfect spot with every stroke. Her head fell back, exposing the elegant line of her throat.

"Look at me," I commanded softly, one hand sliding into her hair, gently turning her face to mine. "I want to see your eyes when you come for me."

Her gaze locked with mine as I drove into her, the connection almost unbearably intimate, more so than the physical joining of our bodies.

This was the recognition I'd spoken of, the inexplicable knowing that had haunted me since our first meeting.

I watched her face as pleasure built, memorizing every detail—the flush spreading across her cheeks, the slight parting of her lips with each exhale, the way her eyes darkened further when I hit a particularly sensitive spot.

"Harder," she demanded, nails raking down my back hard enough to leave marks. "I won't break."

I complied, increasing the force of my thrusts, the desk creaking beneath us.

Papers scattered to the floor, my laptop teetering precariously at the edge until she shoved it aside, clearing space as she leaned back on her elbows, changing the angle again.

"Touch yourself," I urged, overwhelmed by the sight of her spread across my desk, dress bunched at her waist, breasts spilling from black lace, lips swollen from my kisses.

"Show me what you need."

Her hand slid between us, fingers circling her clit as I continued to pound into her.

The sight of her touching herself while taking me nearly undid my control completely.

"That's it," I encouraged, voice rough with strain.

"So beautiful. So fucking perfect."

Her movements grew more desperate, less coordinated, her inner muscles beginning to flutter around me—the prelude to release.

"I'm close," she gasped. "So close."