I'm stuck as he doesn’t let me off the desk.
He gives me two minutes, his forehead against mine, both of us breathing, his hands still on my hips.
Then he pulls back and looks at me and the hunger in his face hasn’t touched the edges.
“Turn around,” he says.
Something low in me clenches at the tone of it. Not asking.
I turn around.
He presses my chest down against the desk and I feel his hand run up the back of my thigh, unhurried and certain, pushing my dress up the rest of the way.
The desk is cool against my cheek. I can see the city through the window. The building across the street, its lights still on.
I can see the reflection of his office in the glass. His face. The way he’s looking at what’s in front of him.
He pushes in from behind and the angle is different, deeper, and
