Page 49 of Ruthless Bond

“Then they’ll know you’re mine.”

He drops to his knees. In his office. Behind his locked door. On a Tuesday. His mouth finds me and the first stroke of his tongue makes me grab the edge of the desk so hard my fingers ache. He’s thorough and relentless and completely unconcerned about the time or the location or the stack of Pilsen reports I’m now sitting on, and within minutes I’m biting down on my own fist to keep from screaming while my thighs tremble against his shoulders.

“Come for me, babochka,” he says against me, and I do, shaking apart on his desk with his name trapped behind my teeth.

He stands. He unfastens his belt. The sound of the buckle, metal on metal in the quiet office, makes my stomach clench. He steps between my legs and pulls me to the edge of the desk and enters me in one smooth stroke, and the fullness of him inside me while I’m still pulsing from the orgasm is almost too much. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on.

He fucks me on his desk with one hand over my mouth and the other gripping my hip, and every time I make a sound louder than a whimper his hand presses tighter and his hips drive harder, as though my noise is both a problem and an incentive. I come again, muffled against his palm, and he follows with a groan he buries in my neck, his mouth against the scar, his teeth grazing the silver line without biting.

Afterward. He’s smoothing my hair. I’m sitting on his desk with my skirt wrinkled and my legs still wrapped around his waist and a pile of crumpled reports under my ass. He looks at me with an expression that’s so openly, nakedly besotted that I want to photograph it and use it as evidence that this man, this ice-cold predator in a suit, is completely undone by a twenty-seven-year-old financial analyst from the thirty-eighth floor.

“Your Pilsen report is ruined,” I say.

“I’ll have you write a new one.”

“From memory? While sitting on your desk?”

“I can think of worse working conditions.”

I laugh again. He watches me laugh and the gold flickers at the edges of his eyes and the expression on his face tells me that my laughter is doing something to him that sex doesn’t, reaching a place inside him that’s about who I am rather than what my body makes him feel.

I’m fastening the last button of my blouse when the word comes back to me. “What did you call me?”

Dominic looks up. “When?”

“You know when.”

His mouth shifts like he’s trying not to smile.

“Right before I—” Heat rushes into my face. “You said something in Russian.”

His eyes stay on mine. “Babochka.”

“That. What does it mean?”

He watches me for a second before answering. “Butterfly.”

I blink. “Butterfly?”

He reaches for me, his fingers closing around my wrist. “You were different when you came here.”

My smile fades. “Different how?”

“Closed.” His thumb moves slowly over my skin. “Careful. Like you were trying to take up as little space as possible.”

My chest tightens. “And now?”

His gaze moves over my face. “Now you don’t.”

I wait. Something shifts in his expression.

“You changed.”

He lifts my hand and brushes his mouth over my knuckles. “You became something else. Open. Beautiful. Mine.”

I kiss him. Quick, light, the kind of kiss that says I have to go back to work even though I’d rather stay here forever. He lets me go reluctantly, his fingers trailing down my arm as I slide off the desk, and I walk to the door and unlock it and turn back.

“Dominic.”