MR. STERLING'S TERMS

Chapter Two

NOVA

I arrived at six fifty-eight.

Two minutes early because I'd been awake since four and given up on sleep at five and been in the shower at five-fifteen thinking about his mouth and what he'd said about tasting me and had to finish myself off with my fingers just to get through getting dressed.

It didn't help.

I was still wound tight as a fist when the elevator opened on eighteen and the floor was dark and empty and silent except for the low hum of the city outside the glass and the single light coming from under his closed office door.

He was already there.

I knocked once.

"It's open."

I pushed the door in.

He was at his desk but not working — jacket off, shirt sleeves down for once, hands loose on the desk surface, looking at the door when I came through it like he'd been watching it for a while. The office smelled like his cologne and fresh coffee and something underneath both of those that was just him, warm and dark, the specific smell of a man I'd been thinking about since Monday.

He looked at me for three full seconds.

Then he stood up.

"Lock it," he said.

I turned and locked the door and when I turned back he was already crossing the room toward me and he didn't say good morning and he didn't ask how I'd slept and he didn't perform any of the professional theater we'd been doing for a week. He walked straight to me and put both hands on my face and tilted my head back and kissed me — deep and immediate and with the specific hunger of a man who had been waiting since Friday and was done waiting.

I grabbed his shirt.

He walked me backward to the desk.

Turned me around.

Both hands pushed me forward until my palms were flat on the mahogany surface and my ass was pushed back toward him and he leaned down and said against the back of my neck: "I said I had things I didn't get to Friday."

"I remember," I breathed.

"Then stay still."

His hands pushed my skirt up. All the way up, bunched at my waist, and his fingers hooked into my underwear and pulled it down my legs and off and dropped it somewhere on the floor and I heard him drop to his knees behind me and the knowledge of what was about to happen made my cunt clench so hard I moaned before he'd touched me.

His hands spread me open.

His mouth found my cunt from behind and I slammed both palms flat on the desk and cried out at the ceiling.

He ate me like he had the rest of the morning. Like he had nowhere to be and nothing to do except take me apart with his tongue — slow, thorough, parting me and tasting me and finding every place that made my thighs shake and returning to it with the specific deliberate memory of a man who learned things once and never forgot them. His tongue pushed inside me and I ground back against his face shamelessly and he let me, hands gripping my ass and pulling me closer, his mouth working my cunt with a focused patience that was going to make me lose my mind completely.

"Dominic—" Broken. Desperate. My fingers clawing at the desk surface for purchase. "Please—"

He pulled back just enough to say: "Please what." Low. Composed. Like he wasn't on his knees with his face buried in my cunt at seven in the morning.

"Don't stop—"

"I'm not stopping." He licked me slow, base to tip, one long devastating stroke. "I'm taking my time." Another stroke. "I've been thinking about this since Friday." Another. "I intend to be thorough."

He was thorough.

Obscenely thorough.

His tongue found my clit and worked it in tight circles while two fingers pushed into my cunt and curled and I came so hard I knocked a stack of documents off the desk and had to bite down on my own arm to muffle the sound that tore out of me. He fucked me through it with his fingers and kept his mouth on my clit until the last shudder left my body and I was limp against the desk with my cheek on the mahogany and my legs barely holding me.

He stood.

I heard his belt.

"I'm not done," he said.

"I know," I said. I couldn't move. Didn't want to. "Don't stop."

He pushed into me from behind in one long stroke and I came again immediately — cunt still sensitive and swollen and clenching around his cock before he'd even started moving — and he groaned against the back of my neck at the feel of it.

"Christ, Nova."

"Move," I said. "Please. Dominic. Just move."

He moved.

Hands on my hips. Cock driving into my cunt with a rhythm that was unhurried at first and then wasn't — building stroke by stroke until the desk was grinding against the floor and my moans were bouncing off the glass walls and his breathing had come completely undone behind me, rough and ragged and real, nothing composed about it.

"Harder," I said.

He gave me harder.

"More—"

He gave me more.

His cock hammered into my cunt with deep relentless strokes that drove the breath out of me on every thrust and I pushed back to meet every one of them because I wanted all of it, wanted to feel him for days, wanted the specific soreness tomorrow that would make me think about this every time I sat down in his office and looked at his face across a desk.

"Cum," he said against my ear. Low and certain. "Right now, Nova. Cum on my cock."

I came.

Clenching and shaking and crying out with my face turned into my own arm and my cunt gripping his cock so hard he cursed out loud — actual profanity, sharp and unguarded, the most undone sound I'd heard from him — and drove in deep and came with me, his cock pulsing inside me, his forehead dropped to my shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against my neck.

After.

The office was very quiet.

City sounds far below. The low hum of the building waking up around us.

His cock still inside me. His hands still on my hips. His breathing slowly returning to something even.

I turned my head and looked at the documents on the floor. At my underwear somewhere near the door. At the coffee cups on his desk going cold.

"We have a board call at nine," I said.

"I know." He didn't move.

"It's seven fourteen."

"I know that too."

He pulled out slow. Dealt with the condom. Straightened himself with those steady hands while I pulled my skirt down and found my underwear and tried to locate my professional composure somewhere in the wreckage of his office floor.

He poured me a coffee.

Set it at the left corner of my desk.

Exactly where it always was.

I looked at the coffee. At him. At the complete, returned composure of a man who had just wrecked me on his desk for the second time in four days and was now standing in his shirtsleeves looking like he was ready for the board call.

"Dominic," I said.

"Mm."

"Is this going to be a problem?"

He looked at me over the rim of his own cup. Those dark assessing eyes. The almost-expression that lived before a smile.

"That depends," he said.

"On what?"

"On whether you can sit across from me in a board meeting in—" he checked his watch "—one hour and forty-six minutes and focus on the quarterly projections."

I thought about his cock. About his mouth. About the fact that I was going to be sitting on a very specific soreness for the rest of the day and thinking about exactly how it got there.

"Probably not," I said honestly.

He looked at me for a long moment.

"Good," he said. "Neither can I."

He picked up his jacket from the chair and shrugged it on and straightened his tie and walked to his office door and paused with his hand on the frame.

"Tonight," he said. Not a question.

"Tonight," I said.

He nodded once and walked in and closed the door and I stood at my desk with my coffee and my ruined composure and the specific deep ache of him still sitting between my legs and thought: I am in serious trouble.

The board call notification pinged on my screen.

One hour forty-five minutes.

I sat down carefully.