"Patience," he murmured, his voice a dark, knowing rumble that made her pussy clench. He was answering her thoughts again. "You'll get what you need when I decide you need it."

His hands began to move, a slow, possessive exploration. He traced the elegant lines of her collarbones, his touch leaving trails of fire in its wake.

He swept down her stomach, his palms flat against her, and she shuddered at the raw, possessive intimacy of the gesture. He was mapping his territory. He was claiming her, inch by inch.

His hands found her hips, gripping them, pulling her back harder against his rigid cock.

"Ahhh..." The sound was a soft, helpless groan. Then, one hand slid down her thigh, tracing the inseam of her tailored skirt.

The friction, even through the thick fabric, was electric.

{TOUCH MY PUSSY. RIP THE SKIRT. GET TO MY WET CUNT. I'M SOAKING WET FOR YOU. I NEED YOUR HANDS ON ME—}

He chuckled, a low, predatory sound. He hooked his fingers into the hem of her skirt. With agonizing slowness, he began to lift it. The cool air caressed her thighs, then the sensitive skin behind her knees.

Higher and higher, until the fabric was bunched around her waist. She could hear his sharp intake of breath as he saw what she was wearing: a tiny, sheer scrap of black lace, so saturated with her arousal that it was transparent, plastered to the glistening, swollen folds of her sex.

The dark triangle of her pubic hair was clearly visible through the drenched fabric.

"Look at you," he breathed, the sound thick with awe and lust. "So fucking beautiful."

His knuckles brushed against her soaked panties, a light, almost accidental touch.

"AIEEE!" She screamed. A raw, surprised jolt of pure electricity shot through her. Her knees gave out completely, and if he hadn't been pinning her against the window, she would have collapsed onto the floor in a heap.

{PUT YOUR FINGERS IN ME. FUCK ME WITH YOUR HANDS. TEAR THESE PANTIES OFF AND SHOVE THEM IN MY MOUTH TO SHUT ME UP WHILE YOU FUCK ME AGAINST THIS WINDOW. RUIN MY PUSSY. I DON'T CARE WHO HEARS—}

This time, he did as she silently begged. His hand cupped her entire pussy, a hot, possessive gesture that made her entire body convulse.

The sound was wet, utterly obscene. He could feel the frantic heat pulsing through the saturated lace, could feel the swollen, greedy lips of her sex trying to suck his fingers through the fabric.

He pressed his middle finger against her tight entrance, and the cloth pushed inside, a soaked, teasing penetration that drove her insane.

"Is this what you need, Catherine?" he growled, his voice a raw, brutal thing. "Is this what your starving pussy has been crying out for?"

"YES! OH FUCK YES! PLEASE DON'T STOP!" The words were a shredded, broken scream, all pretense of composure annihilated. She was grinding back against his hand now, a mindless, desperate animal, shamelessly fucking herself on his fingers through the thin, ruined barrier of her panties.

He pressed the heel of his palm hard against her clit, and she detonated. It wasn't a gentle orgasm. It was a violent, explosive betrayal. A raw, tearing scream was ripped from her lungs as her entire body seized, her back arching like a bow.

Her pussy convulsed, a series of powerful, milking contractions that soaked his hand and her inner thighs with a fresh, hot gush of her cum. She bucked and writhed against him, her mind a blank, white slate of pure, unadulterated sensation.

He held her through it, his hand a steady, knowing pressure, his mouth at her ear. "That's one," he whispered, his voice a dark, triumphant promise. "And we're just getting started."

"My god," he breathed against her neck, genuine awe in his voice. His hand, still cupping her pussy, felt the frantic pulsebeat her body was trying to hide. "You're already—"

"Don't say it—" The protest was a reedy whisper, a final, useless barricade. She knew what he had discovered.

"Soaking wet for me." He said it anyway, the words a dark, velvet hammer blow against her composure. He pressed his palm flat, a proprietary, claiming gesture that made a fresh, involuntary gasp tear from her lips.

"Your professional competence ends where your body's honesty begins."

Her hips moved without her permission—a slow, shameless grind against his hand, seeking friction, seeking relief, seeking anything that would ease the pressure building inside her like steam with nowhere to escape.

His free hand moved, abandoning her breast and sliding with agonizing slowness down her quivering stomach. His fingers traced the waistband of her soaking panties, a tactile journey that made her entire body tense with anticipation.

He hooked a finger under the delicate lace, pulling it away from her swollen flesh.

The elastic snapped back against her skin with a soft, wet thwack, and she cried out, a sharp, high-pitched sound of pure shock.

{I need you inside me. Need you to fuck me until I forget my own name and my business and my reputation and everything except how good this feels—}

"You need me inside you," he said, his voice a low growl that gave voice to the silent scream she'd been holding for years. He slid one finger under the saturated fabric, running it along the slick, swollen groove of her pussy. The touch was direct, electric.

"Ahhh! FUCK!" Her head fell back against his shoulder, a complete offering. "Need me to fuck you until everything else disappears except this."

{Yes. Destroy my reputation. Ruin my name. Just make me forget. Make me feel.}

She sobbed—a raw, actual sob, tears pricking her eyes, years of denial shattering like glass. "Yes. God, yes."

His hands moved with purpose now, and she felt her carefully constructed walls crumbling like sandcastles against a tsunami finally making landfall. The hand on her sex moved, his thumb finding her clit through the sheer lace and beginning a slow, maddening, circular motion.

His hands were on her bare skin now, a dichotomy of sensations.

The cool air on her overheated flesh, contrasted with the scorching heat of his palms as he cupped her breasts, his thumbs finally, finally, claiming her aching nipples.

He rolled the hard peaks between his fingers, a rough, possessive pinch that sent jolts of pure lightning straight to her core. Her hips bucked wildly against his other hand, a frantic, desperate rhythm.

"One last chance," he said, his voice a dark promise wrapped in steel, even as his touch was systematically dismantling her ability to think. "Look at me, Catherine. Look at me and tell me to stop."

{How can I stop? How can anyone stop this? It's like telling the tide not to come in. It's like telling the sun not to rise. I'm already drowning.}

It took a monumental effort of will. She twisted in his arms, and it was a fight—her body didn't want to leave the warmth of his chest, didn't want to lose contact even for the second it took to turn around. His hands fell away, and she felt a sudden, chilling sense of loss at their absence.

She turned to face him, her blouse hanging open, her breasts bare, her chest heaving with ragged, desperate breaths.

Their eyes met.

Hers were glazed, pupils blown so wide the pale blue was barely a thin ring, swimming in a desperate, undeniable lust that had been building for twenty-three years.

All defiance was gone.

All resistance was ash.

All professional dignity was a distant, laughable memory.

She opened her mouth. Tried to form the word that would end this, that would restore sanity, that would let her pretend tomorrow that she'd maintained control

Nothing came out.

Not words. Not protest. Not a professional boundary assertion.

Just a broken whimper of a woman who'd forgotten how to ask for what she needed and was now faced with someone offering it freely, the one thing she had been starving for her entire adult life.

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