Page 119 of Sin

His fingers move with devastating confidence, slow enough to make me ache and precise enough to make my thighs start shaking.

I grip the edge of my desk. “This is why I don’t like celebrating.”

His mouth brushes my ear. “You’re lying.”

“Constantly.”

He laughs under his breath.

Then he pushes two fingers inside me, and I have to bite down on his shoulder to keep from making a sound that would ruin both our lives.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Language, Mr. Sinclair.”

His free hand closes around the back of my neck, bringing my face to his.

“Say that again.”

I swallow. The look in his eyes is dangerous.

“Mr. Sinclair.”

His kiss is brutal. The kind of kiss that makes my spine go soft and my better judgment leave a strongly worded resignation letter. He works me open with his fingers until I’m clinging to him, until my heels hook behind his legs, until I’m panting against his mouth and trying desperately not to come apart too loudly.

Then he stops and I make an actual offended sound.

He looks pleased with himself.

I hate him.

I might love him.

No.

Absolutely not.

We are not doing that in the middle of a locked-door-adjacent office hookup.

His hands go to his belt and my mouth goes dry.

“Hurry,” I whisper.

“I thought five minutes was optimistic.”

“It is. Move faster.”

He does. Thank God. His breath catches under my attention, and that little break in his control makes heat curl low in my stomach. Then he steps between my thighs again and pushes into me with one deep, controlled thrust.

I clap a hand over my mouth and he stills immediately. Our eyes lock.

The stretch is perfect.

The kind of perfect that makes my chest hurt because my body recognizes him now. Wants him. Opens for him like this is not reckless and wrong and likely to end in disaster.

He pulls my hand away from my mouth.

“Use me,” he says. “Not your hand.”