Page 22 of The Pakhan's Secret Babies
His hands grip my thighs and haul me up. My legs lock around his hips as if they belong there, ankles digging into the small of his back.
He carries me out of the elevator the moment the doors open, mouth still devouring mine, tongue stroking deep while I bite his lower lip hard enough to sting.
The corridor is empty and dim at this hour. We stumble the short distance to his office, my fingers twisted in his silver hair, his grip bruising my ass through my skirt.
He kicks the door shut behind us. The lock clicks, and the ordinary office—glass desk, leather chair, and city lights glittering beyond the windows—becomes something dangerous. Something ours.
Clothes come off like they have personally offended us. My jacket hits the floor. His tie is yanked loose. I rip at the buttons of his shirt while he shoves my skirt up around my waist and tears my panties down my legs in one rough motion.
The lace snags on my heel. I do not care. My blouse hangs open, bra shoved aside. His belt clatters near the chair. Shoes are kicked away.
He lifts me onto the edge of his desk. Papers scatter under my thighs. The wood is cool against my bare skin.
Roman drops to his knees between my spread legs without hesitation, silver hair catching the low light from the city. He looks up at me once, eyes dark and hungry and completely focused, then drags his mouth over me.
It’s not gentle or patient like the first time.
He licks me like a man who has been starving for three weeks, broad strokes of his tongue followed by deep, filthy sucks on my clit until my hips buck off the desk and my hands fist in his hair.
I’m already soaked, aching from weeks of lying awake replaying that masked night while pretending I was fine. Now his tongue is inside me, and I cannot pretend anymore.
“Roman. Oh god.” I gasp, thighs shaking around his shoulders.
He groans against me, the vibration shooting straight through my core. Two thick fingers push inside, curling hard, stroking that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
He doesn’t let up. He works me harder, faster, sucking and licking until my back arches off the desk and I come with a sharp cry, pulsing around his fingers, flooding his tongue. The orgasm rips through me so hard my vision whites out.
He rises before I can catch my breath, shirt hanging open, chest heaving. The sight of him, strong shoulders, cut muscle across his abdomen, cock thick and straining hard against his openpants, makes fresh heat flood between my legs. He is even more devastating than I remembered.
He grips my hips and pulls me to the very edge of the desk. The head of his cock notches at my entrance, hot and thick.
“Look at me,” he says, voice low and rough.
Our eyes lock, and the imbalance hits me hard. I know exactly how he feels inside me. He still thinks this is new.
He pushes in with one long, relentless thrust.
I cry out at the stretch, the perfect burn, the way he fills me so completely. He stills for half a second, letting me feel every thick inch, then pulls back slow and slams home again.
The desk creaks under us. Papers flutter to the floor. He sets a brutal rhythm, deep, punishing strokes that hit that spot inside me every single time. My heels dig into his ass, urging him deeper. My nails rake down his back, leaving fire in their wake.
“Fuck, Elena,” he growls against my throat. He bites the frantic pulse there and sucks a dark mark into my collarbone like he wants everyone to see it tomorrow. “You feel so fucking good. So tight. So wet for me.”
I can’t answer with words. Only broken moans and his name. He angles his hips and drives harder, one hand sliding between us to rub tight circles over my clit. The pleasure coils tighter, sharper, until it snaps. I come again, clenching around his cock so hard he groans like it hurts, hips stuttering before he pounds through it.
He flips me suddenly, bending me over the desk so my breasts press against the cool wood and my cheek turns against scattered files. He kicks my legs wider and thrusts back in frombehind, one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. The new angle is devastating. Deeper. Rougher. Every slam of his hips sends shock waves through me.
I push back to meet him, greedy and desperate after three weeks of pretending I didn’t need this. He leans over me, chest to my back, mouth at my ear.
“Come on my cock again,” he demands, voice gravel-rough. “Let me feel it.”
I shatter a third time, sobbing his name into the desk as pleasure crashes over me in waves.
He follows right after, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural sound that vibrates through both of us. His hips jerk and spill inside me, body pressed tight to mine like he never wants to pull out.
We stay locked together for a few moments, our breathing ragged, skin slick with sweat. The office is quiet again except for the distant hum of the city far below. Everything looks exactly the same: the leather chair, the glowing monitor, the half-empty coffee mug from earlier, yet nothing feels the same.
He eases out of me slowly. I stay bent over the desk for another second, legs trembling, trying to pull myself back together while the weight of everything I am not saying presses down on my chest.
