Chapter 3: Bent Over the Chapter Desk
His belt hit the floor with a clatter that seemed too loud for the small room. Then his jeans, pushed down over his hips, kicked aside somewhere near the toppled whiskey glass. The leather cut came last, shrugged off his shoulders and draped over the back of the chair with a care that contradicted everything else about the moment.
Lucy watched him from the desk, still catching her breath, still trembling from what his mouth had done to her. The amber light painted shadows across the broad planes of his chest. A scar ran diagonally below his collarbone, old and pale. Another on his ribs. She wanted to trace them with her tongue.
Her jacket was somewhere on the floor. Her shirt followed, buttons scattering, and then she was bare from the waist up, nipples tightening in the cool air. Tim's eyes tracked down her body like he was memorizing it.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're worth staring at."
"Did you just—was that a compliment? From Tim Bradford?"
"Don't get used to it."
She laughed, soft and breathless, and reached for him. Her fingers found the waistband of his boxers, tugged them down over his hips. He kicked them away without looking.
The flickering bulb buzzed overhead, casting everything in shades of amber and shadow. Lucy could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was still fighting something. Even now. Even with her naked and open and waiting.
"Hey," she said, and his eyes snapped to hers. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Something in his expression cracked. Softened. He stepped between her thighs, hands finding her hips, and pulled her to the very edge of the desk.
"Wrap your legs around me," he said.
She did.
He guided himself to her entrance, and Lucy felt the blunt pressure of him, the heat. Her breath caught. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Just—"
He pushed inside her in one slow stroke.
Lucy cried out. Loud. Louder than she'd ever been in her life, a sound that bounced off the walls and filled every corner of the room. The stretch of him was almost too much, a fullness that bordered on overwhelming, and her nails raked down his back before she could stop herself.
Tim's hand clamped over her mouth.
His palm was rough against her lips, calloused and warm, and his eyes were dark with something between panic and amusement. "You're going to get us caught," he whispered.
Lucy glared at him over his fingers.
He smirked. Actually smirked, the bastard, and then he replaced his hand with his mouth.
The kiss was messy and deep, all tongue and teeth and the taste of whiskey. He swallowed every sound she made, every gasp and moan, drinking them down like he was starving for them. His hips pulled back slow, then snapped forward.
The desk slammed against the wall.
Lucy's legs tightened around his waist. Her heels dug into the small of his back, urging him deeper, and he obliged. Another thrust. Another slam. The typewriter rattled. Papers cascaded off the edge of the desk. Neither of them noticed.
"Fuck," Tim breathed against her mouth. "You feel—"
He didn't finish. Just kissed her harder and moved faster, a rhythm that was relentless and wild, like he'd been holding back for months and couldn't hold back anymore. His hands gripped her ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling her into every thrust.
Lucy's head fell back. Her mouth opened on a moan that he caught with his lips, his tongue sliding against hers, swallowing the sound before it could escape.
The bulb flickered. The desk creaked. Somewhere in the distance, a motorcycle engine rumbled to life, then faded.
Tim's mouth broke from hers and traveled down her throat. He bit the curve where her neck met her shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and Lucy gasped. Her hips rocked against his, meeting him thrust for thrust, and the friction built something hot and tight in her belly.
"Don't stop," she managed. "Please, don't—"
"I've got you."
His voice was rough, broken. His forehead pressed against hers, breath hot and uneven on her lips. Sweat slicked his chest against hers. The desk banged against the wall in a rhythm that was probably audible from the street, but Lucy couldn't bring herself to care.
She was close. So close. The pressure was building, coiling tight, and her thighs started to shake.
"Tim—"
"I know." He drove into her harder. "Let go. I've got you."
The second orgasm hit her like a freight train.
She came with a broken cry that he swallowed with his mouth, her body clenching around him, nails raking fresh lines down his back. Tim groaned against her lips, a sound that vibrated through her chest, and his hips stuttered. Lost their rhythm.
Two more thrusts. Three. Then he buried himself deep and followed her over the edge, face buried in her neck, breath hot and ragged against her skin.
The bulb flickered once. Twice. Then settled.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Just breathing. Just existing in the aftermath, tangled together on a desk that had probably seen better decades.
Lucy's fingers traced lazy circles on the back of his neck. His heart pounded against her chest, gradually slowing.
"So," she said, voice hoarse. "That happened."
Tim laughed. Actually laughed, low and genuine, and pulled back just enough to look at her. His face was softer than she'd ever seen it, the hard lines smoothed out into something almost boyish.
"Yeah," he said. "It did."
"Regrets?"
He was quiet for a beat. Then he shook his head. "Not a single one."
Lucy smiled. It felt like sunshine.
"Good," she said. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
Tim raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Not even close."
She pushed at his chest, and he stepped back, watching her with a look that was part curiosity, part hunger. Lucy slid off the desk, her bare feet landing on the worn carpet, and turned slowly to face him.
Her eyes traveled down his body. The broad shoulders. The scars. The way he was already half-hard again, which was frankly impressive for a man his age.
"Where's the couch?" she asked.
Tim's lips twitched. "There isn't one."
"Bed?"
"Not in here."
Lucy sighed, dramatic and put-upon. "Then I guess we're staying on the floor."
She sank to her knees on the carpet, and Tim's breath caught.
"Lucy—"
"Shut up." She reached for his hips, pulled him closer. "You had your turn. It's mine now."
He opened his mouth like he was going to argue. Then she took him in her mouth, and whatever he was going to say dissolved into a groan that he tried and failed to muffle.
The bulb buzzed overhead.
The night was just getting started.