Page 73 of Shades of Grey & Gold

Then he leans in and does exactly what I asked.

I lay myself back on the oversized desk and stare at the ceiling. It’s got little delicate gold streaks and stars like a night sky painted across it, and I trace each line as his tongue traces the inside of my thighs. Each time my eyes find a new swirl, a new star, there’s a new favorite spot Cal’s lips have touched, a new swirl of his tongue to match.

And as my eyes land on the mirror across the room reflecting the light of the chandelier, he slides his tongue up, finding the bundle of nerves that so badly craved—no, needed—his attention.

I clutch the lip of the desk, the wood biting my palms, breath stuttering at the first press of his mouth against my center. The world narrows to warm and ‘yes’ and ‘please,’ to the way he listens with his hands and learns me like a language he was always meant to speak. He is unhurried and focused, obscenely attentive, every hum a promise, every pause a question he answers by finding the place I’m already aching for.

His hands burn their mark into the sides of my hips, and I prop myself up again, fighting every muscle in my body that begs me to lie down and just enjoy this moment. But I have to see him.

And then I do. The brown curls, the golden-green eyes full of heat staring back up at me. And the almost imperceptible pause in his movement as he undoubtedly makes absolutely sure I’m okay so he can continue.

But if I had my way, he’d never stop.

As he sucks gently, I throw myself back on the desk, tipping my head back; the lights above us blur; a sound I’ve never made before shakes loose from somewhere deep inside of me.

“C—Cal,” I manage, the word breaking, my heels digging into the backs of his shoulders. I feel him smile against me, the bastard, and he keeps going, gentle then deeper,sucking softly, and then sliding a finger inside of me, pumping once, and then twice, then replacing it with his tongue. Like he’s mapping oceans and naming them, just to set course to map them again.

His left hand holds me against his mouth and against the desk even though I am bucking against him and both my hands find their way into his hair, gently massaging his head. He slides two fingers inside of me now, licking and sucking in rhythm.

I gasp, pulling at his hair with one hand and gripping the desk with the other, and his hums against my clit in response to me send me over the edge, literally and metaphorically.

His fingers slip out of me as I slide a few inches off the desk, but I don’t fall, and I don’t even consider falling as an option. Both his hands grip me around my ass and back to hold me against his lips, my legs fully over his shoulders now where he sits. I brace my hands on the desk beside me and throw my head back as he devours me.

When my orgasm hits, it’s a small detonation. I vaguely hear his name and it sounds like it might be my voice, but this feeling is bright, melting, and my senses blur together. My spine arches, my fingers scramble for purchase over moon phases and gold and wood. He doesn’t stop until I’m done shaking, until breath returns to my body like tide returning to shore.

He kisses the inside of each thigh, then each knee as he sets one foot and then the other solidly on the ground. But he doesn’t let go of my hips as he stands. My pulse won’t calm down as he trails kisses against my hips, and the kisses follow his hands up to my waist. He holds me there as he rises to tower above me, mouth swollen, eyes dark with the kind of pride that undoes me all over again.

“You okay?” he asks, forehead against mine.

I huff a laugh that’s half-sob. “Unfairly okay.”

“Good.” He drags his knuckles down my cheek. “You on this desk might ruin me.”

“I will allow you to negotiate your ruin, like any good lawyer.”

“Take everything.” His hands slide under me, lifting, setting me further onto the smooth wood.

“You’re a real shitty negotiator, Calogero Renzetti.” My lips tilt in a smile and I laugh as his hands run back up my body, caressing a nipple with each hand as he does. “Not lawyerly in the least.”

He kisses me lazily and deep, and the taste of myself on his tongue makes my knees go soft again. Somewhere beneath me, paper shifts. He makes a low sound when I tug his shirt over his head; I make a lower one when he does the same to my cardigan and tanktop, tossing them aside. Skin to skin, nothing between us but the thin band of control that feels more optional by the second.

I reach down to touch the waistband of his jeans and find the button, releasing it and sliding the zipper down, as he continues to steal my breath with his lips on mine. I hear the jeans hit the floor and feel the soft band of the top of his briefs under my fingers.

Of course he pauses. “Tell me, Max.”

“I want to be on top,” I say, surprised at how steady I sound. “I want to see you.”

His curse is soft and reverent. “Anything you want, you can be the boss.”

A curve of a smile rests upon my lips as he turns me, sitting back against the desk, palms flat behind him, the muscles in his stomach cutting neat lines down the center of my new favorite view. The chandelier paints him in warm gold. I swing a leg over his lap, slowly, a deliberate claiming of what is mine, and settle my hands on his shoulders.

I press him back as his hard length meets my center between us. The movement crinkles something under him. I glance down.

There—half tucked beneath his shoulder, half fanned across the desk—are glossy pamphlets. A pamphlet for Roger Williams University School of Law in Providence.

My breath catches. Another pamphlet peeks out from under his palm; the corner bent like someone was saving it for later.

Admission Options for Transfer Students.