She is a study in contrasts—practically vibrating with nervous energy, but trusting me enough not to move at all. I walk around her twice, letting my hand trail along her shoulder. I stop in front of her, hook a finger under her chin. She’s breathing fast, but she doesn’t flinch.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I don’t answer. I sweep the desk clean with my arm—files, pens, everything to the floor. Lucy jumps at the sound, thensmiles, nervous but brave. I lift her again, set her on the polished mahogany, hair spilling over her shoulders, and legs splayed just enough to part the shirt down the middle.
I stand between her knees, hands on her thighs, and for the first time in my life, beg. “Tell me you want this,” I whisper.
She licks her lips. “I want this. I want you.”
That’s all I need. In one easy motion, I tear the shirt open to her navel, then drop to my knees and run my tongue along the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate. She gasps, grabbing the edge of the desk with both hands, knuckles whitening. When I reach the soft curve at the very top, I stop, let my breath ghost against her skin, then look up.
Lucy glares down at me, defiant. “Coward.”
I grin, nipping at her flesh. “You have no idea.”
Her breasts are round, perfect, nipples already tight from the anticipation. I cup her, run my thumb in a circle, then stand and press her flat onto the desk, both her arms stretched over her head.
She moans, low and desperate, as I kiss my way up her stomach to her mouth. She pulls me in, wraps her legs around my waist, and bucks up, grinding until I’m throbbing through the thin fabric of my boxers. She’s naked except for the shirt hanging in threads around her shoulders. I want her so much I could rip myself apart for it.
I drag my teeth along the curve of her jaw, then lower to her ear. “I nearly lost you,” I say, voice rough. “Don’t fucking do that to me again.”
She gasps, voice trembling. “Don’t give me a reason to leave.”
She's right—so right it hurts. I grip her thigh hard enough to leave purple fingerprints on her pale skin, and thrust into her slick heat with such force the desk creaks beneath us. She cries out, her voice breaking into a high, keening sound that makes my cock throb. I bite down on the tender flesh where her neckmeets her shoulder, tasting salt and sweetness, muffling my own animal growl as her tight, wet walls clench around me.
We move together like we're possessed—her hips rising to meet each brutal thrust, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass. She rakes her nails down my back, leaving burning trails I'll wear proudly tomorrow. The pain anchors me to this moment, to the obscene, wet sounds of our bodies colliding. When her thighs begin to quiver, and her pussy pulses around me, I slow to an agonizing pace, grinding deep inside her, pressing my forehead against hers as our ragged breaths mingle.
"I love you," I growl against her mouth, tasting her gasp as I confess what I've never said aloud.
She sinks her teeth into my lower lip hard enough to draw blood, her eyes wild. "Fucking prove it."
I hammer into her relentlessly, her breasts bouncing with each impact, until she's sobbing my name, her back arching off the desk as she comes apart. Her orgasm triggers mine, and I explode inside her with a force that makes my vision blur, filling her with hot pulses that seem endless.
We stay locked together, her body trembling beneath mine, my hand cradling her head, fingers tangled in sweat-dampened hair. She closes her eyes, lips parted and swollen from my kisses. When I finally withdraw, she whimpers at the loss, then laughs as my seed trickles down her inner thigh.
"You're insane," she says, voice hoarse from screaming.
"For you," I reply, reluctantly zipping up my jeans, already wanting more.
She slides off the desk, lands wobbly on the balls of her feet, hair sticking to her damp forehead. She finds her balance—she always does—then circles the desk and plants herself in my lap, arms looped around my neck.
“Are you going to chain me to the furniture next?” she jokes, but her voice is soft, almost hopeful.
“Maybe some other time, Lucia,” I say.
She kisses me, slow and full of relief, and for a long time neither of us moves.
The phone finally rings, shattering the spell. I answer on the first ring. Enzo, on the other end, gives me the news in a voice somewhere between awe and terror: John Stuyvesant has withdrawn from every board, canceled every public appearance. His law firm's biggest clients received anonymous packages containing surveillance photos of their wives and children. His grandmother's country club membership—her pride for fifty years—was revoked after an anonymous tip about her late husband's patronage of a brothel in Queens. Photographs of John himself, bleary-eyed, buying cocaine from a known drug dealer, will appear on three tabloid covers. None flattering, all leaked at precisely the right time.
"The Stuyvesant name is poison now," Enzo whispers. "These scandals will haunt them for years."
I nod, watching Lucy. She waits, the faintest smile playing at the corner of her mouth, pupils dilating slightly. She likes hearing how the world burns for her.
When I hang up, Lucy stands and paces the room, toes leaving little moon-shaped prints on the wood. “So. I guess I’m an outcast, now.”
“I love outcasts, and I love you,” I say, “We can take our time. We can wait until you’re ready to be seen with a monster in public.”
She turns, stares at me with something close to adoration. “You’re not a monster, Ale.”