practiced, routine … part of the job. There’s no script on my tongue. Nothing my body does is in hope to make him come faster, to get this over with. The goose bumps on my arms are real. The moan that finally touches my lips is involuntary and the only thing I can do to keep from exploding.
Talent grips the desk above my head, right beside my hands, and uses it as leverage as he pulls out and drives back inside of me. I let go, circling my arms around his neck and hold on. Solid wood shudders beneath us, more paper falls to the floor, and the phone takes a dive.
I press my lips to his neck where his pulse soars underneath, smearing lipstick on his skin. My nipples brush against his chest, adding to the mass of sensation I can’t process. This is too much. This is more than I’ve ever had. More than I’ve ever allowed.
He turns the full force of his gray eyes on me, translating concern his body doesn’t feel as he slams into me again and again.
Is this okay, they ask.
“Harder,” I answer.
Talent Ridge is pure, unadulterated masculinity.
He is control.
He is power.
He is strength.
I pierce my nails into his back and bite his sharp jawline between my teeth. I lick the heat on his cheeks and run my fingers through his hair, pulling it at the nape of his neck.
“Harder,” I command.
I come undone when he thrusts into me and pushes, and pushes, and pushes to the hilt, stroking my clit, filling me fully. If he didn’t have me pinned to his desk with his cock, I’d fly.
I’d float away, never to be seen again.
Once I’m so high and can’t imagine it getting better than this, Talent wraps my hair around his fist and pulls my head back. His soft lips sweep along the top of my shoulder and up my throat before stopping at my ear.
“Good girl,” he whispers as my body dissolves under his touch.
I hold him through his climax, rolling my hips, meeting him thrust for thrust until we’re sated and out of breath. He braces himself above me on his forearms, pressing lazy kisses on my heated skin. I close my eyes, falling victim to the temporary bliss after sex that good, and slowly run my fingers up and down his back.
Reality is a gradual descent, struggling to break through unfamiliar ease. It starts by slowly blinking against the haze, until my eyes are wide open and looking around the office. The sky is dark now, and the city glows with artificial light. My arms and legs feel boneless, and my back screams in protest against the hardwood under me.
Talent’s still inside of me, in no hurry to end our arrangement. The working girl in me knows the hour isn’t up, and the typical twenty-something-year-old girl I am wants to devour this moment—as unfamiliar as after-sex affection is. But weightlessness becomes heavier and denser, and my heart rate accelerates, and panic seizes my lungs.
What happened?
What have I just done?
“Up,” I say, smacking Talent’s arms. “Please. Let me up.”
Talent backs away, pulling up his pants. He doesn’t refasten his belt or button his shirt. He offers me a hand to sit up, but I’m off the desk before I take it into consideration. Standing on my own two feet doesn’t relieve the creeping claustrophobia darkening the edges of my vision. My dress is bunched around my waist and twisted, and I can’t find my bra.
“It’s right here,” Talent says. He politely looks the other way after handing me my bra.
“Thanks,” I mumble, fumbling to refasten it in the back.
“Look, Cara,” he starts. His jaw tenses, and he slips his hands into his pockets. “I need to apologize.”
I scoff, stretching my dress down my thighs. “Don’t bother.”
He takes a step toward me but halts when I take a step back. Talent rakes his fingers through his hair and exhales a large breath. His cheeks are still tinted red, and his eyes have that freshly fucked look in them. His pants sit low on his hips, and my lipstick is smeared against his skin.
“I need this to stay between us,” he says, lowering his stare to the floor. He shakes his head before meeting my eyes, breaking my heart with the regret reflected back at me. “It’s not because I didn’t enjoy you … enjoy this. But my family—”
Smoothing my hands over my hair, I box up disappointment and guilt sitting at the