Marvin’s head drops between my knees, and I feel the sudden, damp heat of his breath against my inner thighs. I try to pull back, my palms flat against the cold table surface, but his grip is firm. He doesn't just hold me, he restricts me. His large hands are like iron clamps on my hips, pulling my center toward the very edge of the desk until I am completely vulnerable to the city lights bleeding through the windows.
"Look at the glass, Iris," he commands, his voice muffled by the closeness to my skin.
I lift my head, my neck straining. The floor-to-ceiling windows act as a dark, smoky mirror against the night. In the reflection, I see the silhouette of my own body, shattered and exposed, and the massive, broad-shouldered shape of the man who controls my salary now controlling my pulse.
