"On your knees," he commanded, his voice a low, gentle murmur that held no room for refusal. It wasn't a request, but it wasn't a threat; it was simply a statement of what was to come, a shared inevitability. The grip in her hair loosened, becoming a guiding pressure as she sank to the plush carpet, the fibers rough against her sensitive skin, her body thrumming with a terrifying, exhilarating submission. He guided her head forward, and she took him into her mouth. He was bigger than she had anticipated, thick and heavy on her tongue, and she struggled to accommodate him. He felt her hesitation, her shallow breaths, and instead of forcing her, he simply stroked her cheek, a silent, tender reassurance. But as her confidence grew, so did his need. He began to move, a slow, shallow rocking of his hips, pushing just a little deeper with each pass. He felt her relax, her throat opening to him, and he pushed further, testing her limits. The head of his cock nudged the back of her throat, and she gagged, a reflexive, wet sound. He didn't pull back; he held her there for a heartbeat, letting her feel the full extent of his control, letting her adjust. "Breathe," he whispered, his voice a low rasp. "That's it, just breathe for me." He began to fuck her mouth then, a slow, deliberate rhythm that was both a possession and a perverse form of worship. He watched her, his eyes dark with a fierce, possessive lust, as she took him, her tears mixing with the saliva that dripped from the corners of her mouth.
Just as he felt the familiar tightening coil of his release begin to build, a powerful, primal urge deep in his spine, he stilled. He pulled out of her mouth with a soft, wet pop, leaving her gasping for air. He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I don't wanna cum just yet," he said, his voice thick with a raw, unspoken emotion. "Not like this."
In a single, fluid motion, he lifted her, his arms cradling her as if she were precious, and carried her to the plush bed, laying her down with a reverence that made her heart ache. He didn't immediately follow her over. Instead, he knelt at the edge of the bed, parting her legs with gentle, but firm, hands. He looked at her, his gaze so intense it was almost a physical touch. He traced a single finger along her slick folds, and she shuddered, a soft moan escaping her lips. "You're so beautiful like this," he murmured, his voice a low, reverent prayer. And then he entered her with his fingers, first one, then two, his touch expert and sure. He curled them inside her, finding that spot that made her vision white out, his thumb circling her clit with a maddening, perfect pressure. He watched her face as he worked her, his own arousal a fierce, burning thing, but held in check by a sweeter, more powerful need to see her fall apart in his arms.
When he moved over her, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, and positioned himself at her entrance, he felt an unexpected resistance, a clenching tightness that made him pause instantly. He looked down at her, his expression not of frustration, but of intense, focused concern. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead, his thumb stroking her temple. "Easy," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "Let me in. Just feel me." He went impossibly slow, giving her body time to adjust, each infinitesimal advance a lesson in patience. He watched her face, cataloging every flicker of sensation, his own arousal tempered by a fierce, protective need to ensure her comfort. He had never been so attuned to a partner, never felt the act so profoundly as a shared experience rather than a personal conquest.
When he was fully sheathed, he stilled, letting them both simply feel the connection. He could feel the last vestiges of tension leaving her body, her muscles softening around him. He leaned down, his lips hovering just above hers. "Is this okay?" he asked, his voice thick with an emotion that went far beyond simple lust.
She nodded, her breath hitching.
A soft smile touched his lips, but his eyes held a serious, tender light. "Words, Allison. I need to hear you."
"Yes, Collin," she breathed, the sound barely a whisper, but it was everything he needed to hear.
That was his undoing. He withdrew almost completely, a slow, deliberate drag that made her whimper at the loss, and then he surged back into her, deeper than before. The movement forced a sharp cry from her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He set a rhythm that was both devastating and perfect, pulling out and driving back in, each thrust designed to rub her most sensitive spot against his pelvis. The friction was exquisite, a building pressure that coiled deep in her belly. The moans she couldn't hold back seemed to fuel a fire in him; his movements became harder, more precise, a devastatingly controlled tempo that pushed her higher and higher.
He rose up on his arms, changing the angle, and the new position allowed him to hit a place inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice gentle but firm. She forced her eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. The raw emotion she saw there—awe, desire, and a connection so deep it was terrifying—shattered something inside her. This wasn't just sex; it was a revelation. He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit, circling it in time with his powerful thrust . The dual sensation was a perfect, devastating storm of pleasure. Her orgasm tore through her, a blinding, all-consuming wave that left her gasping his name, her body arching against his as the pleasure pulsed through every nerve ending.
He followed her over the edge with a low, reverent groan, his release a hot, flooding warmth that felt like a promise. As he collapsed against her, his face buried in the curve of her neck, a profound realization settled over him. He had experienced passion before, had taken and been taken, but this—this was different. This was the best sex he had ever had, not because of the mechanics, but because of the soul-deep connection that had forged between them in the heat of the moment. He had never felt so close to another person, so seen, so complete.
When the first muted light of morning began to paint the horizon a pale, bruised purple, Allison woke curled against the solid warmth of Collin's chest. His arm was a heavy, protective band across her, a cage of warm muscle and bone. She carefully extracted herself from his embrace. Collin was a heavy sleeper, his face softened, vulnerabilities showing in the brief cessation of his usual granite control. He looked younger, less like a force of nature and more like a man momentarily drained of power.
Allison moved toward the dressing area attached to the suite. She dressed quickly, pulling her emerald dress back over skin that felt intensely alive. She checked her reflection—her hair was a disastrous halo, her lips swollen, her eyes bright with a lingering, undeniable heat.
A moment of pure, unadulterated panic flared. This was Collin Vance. This wasn't supposed to be complicated. This was a contained event, a necessary explosion. She had a massive presentation scheduled for Tuesday. She couldn't afford residual emotional turbulence.
She paused by the entrance to the bedroom, glancing back. He was still asleep, a king reigning over his temporary domain of silk sheets and shadows. She shouldn't wake him. Waking him meant explanations, future expectations, names, numbers—the entanglement she was determined to avoid. It was cleaner this way. A perfect, self-contained singularity.
She dug into the small clutch she'd brought, finding only her wallet and phone. No card with her office number. She pulled out a pen and grabbed an expensive note card left near the door, intended perhaps for messages to his staff.