I kiss my way back up her body while she's still shaking.
Her hands find my belt, and the coordination is shot but the intent is fierce, and between us we get my clothes off and I settle between her thighs with my forearms braced on either side of her head.
Skin against skin. The full length of my body pressing hers into the mattress, and the sensation of her, warm and trembling and bare beneath me, is so overwhelming that I have to close my eyes and breathe because if I don't I'm going to last about thirty seconds and she deserves more than that.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, the part of me that's always running commentary, the part that keeps the team laughing and the tension manageable, offers the observation that this is the first time Tommy has ever needed a loading screen. I almost laugh. Almost. Then she shifts underneath me and her hips tilt and the blunt press of my cock againsther erases every coherent thought I've ever had, and the commentary goes permanently offline.
Her legs wrap around me. Her heels dig into the backs of my thighs, pulling me closer.
I push inside her slowly, watching her face, and her eyes stay open. Locked on mine.
The eye contact doesn't break.
I bottom out and the tight heat of her pulls a groan out of me that sounds like it belongs to someone else. Her eyes hold mine. I start to move and her breath catches on every stroke, and still they hold. Her nails drag down my back in lines that sting and burn and I thrust harder because the pain is permission and the permission is everything, and her eyes don't close.
"Eyes open," I tell her when her lids finally flutter. Not a command. A request. Because I need to see her face in this moment, in this light, with this version of me moving inside her. The version nobody knows about. The one she asked for.
Her eyes stay open.
"You feel like something I should have built years ago," I say, and the words fall out unfiltered and raw, and I don't take them back because they're true and because the look on her face when she hears them is worth the vulnerability of saying them.
"You couldn't have built me." Her voice is fractured, barely a whisper, but the precision is still there. Even now. Even like this. "I'm not your code."
"No. You're better."
I brace my weight on one arm and slide my hand between us. Find her clit with my thumb, still swollen and sensitive, and stroke her in time with my hips.
She arches into the contact and her whole body tightens around me and the feeling is so intense that my rhythm falters.
"Stay exactly there," she breathes, and the command in it, the absolute refusal to let me fail her in this, sends a jolt through methat has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the fact that this woman trusts me enough to demand what she needs.
I don't stop. I adjust the angle and find the stroke that makes her breath catch and repeat it, building a rhythm between my thumb and my hips that she matches, her body rising to meet mine, her hands gripping my shoulders with a strength that surprises us both.
Her second orgasm hits harder than the first. Her back arches off the mattress and she says my name like she's tasting the syllables for the first time, and the sound of it, stripped of professional context, used only as a summons and a surrender, is what finishes me.
I bury my face in her neck and let go. My hips slam forward, deep, pinning her to the mattress while I come inside her with a force that blanks every thought I've ever had.
My whole body locks, every muscle drawn tight, and the groan against her throat is raw and broken and loud enough that the south corridor might actually hear this one.
She holds me through it. Her legs tight around my hips, her fingers in my hair, her body still pulsing around my cock in aftershocks that drag the last of the orgasm out of me until my arms buckle and I collapse against her with nothing left.
Nothing except nerve endings and breath and the woman beneath me who just disassembled me more thoroughly than any weapon ever could.
Afterward, we lie in the cooling quiet. The bed is wide enough for two but she's pressed against me from shoulder to ankle anyway, occupying my space like she's decided the distance either of us usually maintains is no longer operative.
I find my glasses on the bedside table. Put them on. The room sharpens.
"You ignored my instructions," she says. Her voice is wrecked, but the tone is pure Dar. Flat. Assessing. Like she's filing a post-operation report.
"Your instructions were wrong."
"My instructions were precise."
"Precisely wrong." I trace a line down her shoulder with one finger. "I had better data."
Her mouth twitches. The closest thing to a smile she gives when she's been proven wrong and isn't ready to concede the point. "Your methodology was unorthodox."
"My methodology made you say my name loud enough for the whole south corridor to hear."