Chapter 13: Honey I’m home
The silence in Craig’s library was a different creature than the quiet of her own apartment. Here, it was dense, expensive, soaked into the leather bindings and the deep pile of the rug. Mya had lost herself in a first-edition copy of The Sheltering Sky, the prose mirroring her own dislocation. Five hours. The sun had set beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, leaving the city a glittering necklace strung across the dark.
She heard the key in the penthouse door, the solid thud of it closing, the familiar, confident tread of his boots on the marble floor. Her heart did a stupid, traitorous leap. She kept her eyes on the page, the words blurring.
He appeared in the library doorway, still in his dark tailored shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’d been working. She could see the tightness in his shoulders, a faint tension around his eyes that hadn’t been there that morning. He leaned against the doorframe, watching her.
“You’re still here,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It sounded like something else—relief, maybe.
“You told Marco to bring me,” she replied, not looking up. “Was I supposed to flee?”
A faint smirk touched his lips. “You’d get about three feet. The building security is… thorough.” He pushed off the frame and walked in, his presence immediately shrinking the vast room. He came to stand behind her chair, his hands resting on the back of it. She could feel the heat of him. He looked down at the book in her lap. “Heavy reading.”
“It’s fitting,” she said softly.
His fingers brushed the bare skin of her shoulder, a light, possessive stroke. She shivered. “What’s fitting about it, sweetheart?”
“The idea that we don’t know what we’re getting into. That the trip itself changes you.” She finally tilted her head back to look up at him. The intensity in his dark eyes was startling, a banked fire.
“Yeah,” he murmured, his thumb tracing her collarbone. “It does.”
He bent and kissed her, a slow, deep kiss that tasted like whiskey and winter mint. It was a claiming, but a gentle one. When he pulled back, his voice was rough. “I’ve been thinking about you all fucking day. It’s been a problem.”
A thrill shot through her, warm and liquid. “A problem?”
“A distraction. I was in a meeting with some very serious, very dangerous men, and all I could think about was the way you come on my cock. The sounds you make.”
Her cheeks flushed hot. She should have been shocked. With Derek, any mention of sex was clinical, fraught with rules and shame. With Craig, the filth was a dark caress. It made her feel seen, desired in a way that was terrifyingly complete.
“That’s… inappropriate,” she whispered, a feeble protest.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through the chair. “You have no idea.” He straightened and walked around to face her, holding out a hand. “Come here.”
She placed the book carefully on the side table and took his hand. He pulled her up and into him, his arms wrapping around her, one hand splayed against the small of her back. They just stood there, in the middle of the grand library, swaying slightly. He rested his chin on top of her head. This quiet holding was almost more intimate than what they’d done that morning.
“My father asked about you,” he said into her hair.
She went still. “What did you say?”
“I told him you were none of his fucking business.” The words were harsh, but his hold was tender. “It didn’t go over well.”
She could feel the conflict in him, the tension returning to his muscles. This world of his, it had teeth. And she was now a vulnerable spot in its armor. She pulled back slightly to look at him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He cupped her face, his gaze scanning her features. “You’re the first thing that’s been just mine in a long time. Maybe ever.”
The raw admission hung between them. He looked almost surprised he’d said it, his jaw tightening as if to recapture the words. He covered the vulnerability with action, dipping his head to capture her mouth again. This kiss was hotter, needier. His tongue slid against hers, and she moaned, her hands sliding up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.
He walked her backwards until her legs hit the enormous mahogany desk. He lifted her, clearing a space among the neat stacks of paper with a careless sweep of his arm. A ledger fluttered to the floor. He stepped between her knees, his hands pushing her sweater up. She raised her arms, letting him pull it off, leaving her in just her bra and jeans. The air in the room was cool on her skin, raising goosebumps.
He just looked at her, his eyes dark and hungry. “I want to ruin you for anyone else, Mya. I want you so full of me you can’t fucking think.”
“I already can’t think,” she breathed.
He undid her jeans, yanking them and her panties down her thighs. He didn’t remove them completely, just left them bunched around her knees, a symbol of hurried possession. He unfastened his own pants, freeing his hard, thick length. He was already slick at the tip. He stroked himself once, his eyes locked on hers.
“Tell me you want it,” he growled, the command soft but absolute.
“I want it.”
“Where?”
Her face burned. “Inside me.”
“Use your words, baby. The filthy ones.”
She swallowed, the words feeling alien on her tongue. “I want your cock inside me. Please.”
A sharp, approving grin cut across his face. He hooked his hands under her knees, spreading her wide, opening her completely to his gaze and the dim light. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head nudging against her wet, sensitive flesh. He pushed in an inch, just enough to stretch her, then stopped.
“Look at me.”
She dragged her eyes from where their bodies were joining to his face. The raw need there mirrored her own.
He drove the rest of the way in, a single, deep, punishing thrust that buried him to the root. She cried out, her back arching off the cool wood of the desk. He was so deep, so impossibly full. He held there, letting her adjust, his own breath shuddering.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he muttered, leaning over her, bracing his hands on the desk on either side of her head. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was somehow more devastating than the frantic pace of the morning. Each withdrawal was a sweet agony, each return a shocking fulfillment. The desk creaked in a steady, solid tempo.
He dipped his head, taking a nipple into his mouth through the lace of her bra, sucking hard. The dual sensation made her sob. Her legs, trapped by her jeans, tightened around his hips, trying to pull him closer, deeper.
“That’s it, take it,” he grunted against her skin, his pace increasing. The slow, deep strokes became harder, faster. The slick, wet sounds of their joining filled the quiet library. He was hitting a spot inside her that made white light flare behind her eyelids with every thrust.
“Craig… I’m gonna…”
“Come, then. Come all over my cock.”
His words were the trigger. The orgasm tore through her without warning, a wave of pure, mindless pleasure that clenched every muscle. She screamed, her vision blanking, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick wood of the desk.
Her screams echoed off the high ceilings, a raw sound that seemed to startle the silent books. Craig watched her face contort in pleasure, her body clenching around him in rhythmic, fluttering pulses that milked his shaft. He groaned, his own release threatening to crash through him.
“Look at you screaming for my cock,” he growled, his voice thick with awe and lust. He ground into her, drawing out the last shocks of her climax. “You want more? Want me to make you come again?”
She could only moan, her hips making tiny, involuntary circles as she rode out the diminishing waves. Her mind was liquid, her thoughts scoured clean by sensation. He shifted, his hands sliding from her knees to grip her hips, holding her steady for his deep, rolling thrusts.
“All day I thought of you sitting in my lap, my cock deep inside,” he breathed, the words hot against her neck. He fucked her with a slower, more deliberate pace, each stroke a calculated reminder of his possession. “In the car. At the fucking meeting. Your tight little cunt wrapped around me.”
“Craig,” she whimpered, her own hips rising to meet his, seeking that friction again already. Her sensitivity was a live wire, every movement sending new sparks through her spent nerves.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he rasped, pushing deeper, making her gasp. “Spending your day stuffed full, coming over and over again until you couldn’t walk straight.”
He felt her inner muscles give a fresh, feeble clench at the imagery. She cried out, a shattered sound, as he angled himself to hit that perfect, swollen spot once more.
“Yes or no, baby?”
She nodded frantically, her cheek rubbing against the polished wood. “Yes. Yes, fuck yes. Just fuck me, please.”
He kissed the hinge of her jaw, a fleeting, violent tenderness. Then he pulled out of her completely, the sudden emptiness a shock. He yanked her jeans and panties the rest of the way off her legs, letting them fall to the rug. He made quick work of her bra, tossing it aside. Now she was fully naked, exposed and trembling on the massive desk.
“Up,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for hesitation.
She pushed herself up on shaky arms. He turned her roughly, his hands firm on her waist, and laid her on her stomach over the table. The edge bit into her hips. Her feet dangled, her toes searching for but not reaching the ground. The position was deeply vulnerable, her ass raised and presented to him.
He gathered her long, curly hair in one fist, carefully pulling her head back until her spine arched. He used his other hand to spread her ass, his thumb stroking over her wet, swollen entrance. He lined himself up, the broad head of his cock nudging against her.
He pushed in slowly, a relentless, stretching invasion that forced a choked gasp from her throat. He sank to the hilt in one smooth, excruciating slide, his pelvis meeting the soft flesh of her ass. He held there, buried completely, letting her feel the full, impossible depth of him.
He pulled out just as slowly, an agonizing retreat that made her whimper at the loss. Then he rammed back into her, a single, brutal thrust that slammed her body forward.
Her ass bounced against him with the force. “Fuck, Mya,” he growled, grabbing a firm handful of her cheek, his fingers digging in. He set a punishing pace, each drive a hammer blow that shook the desk and stole the air from her lungs. The wet, slapping sounds of skin on skin were obscenely loud in the dignified room.
He kept his fist in her hair, controlling the angle, holding her right where he wanted her. Every deep, hard pump stabbed pleasure directly into her core. Her previous sensitivity burned away, replaced by a building, coarser need. She was being remade by this, by him.
“This cunt is mine,” he stated, the words a dark promise punctuated by his thrusts. “You understand? No one else touches you. No one else thinks about you. You’re fucking mine.”
It should have terrified her. Instead, it ignited something. After years of Derek’s cold, shaming control, this hot, vicious claim felt like freedom. She pushed back against him, meeting his force with her own.
“Yours,” she panted into the woodgrain, the submission a conscious choice, a gift. “God, yes.”
Her assent shattered his last shred of restraint. His rhythm became frantic, erratic, a starved man finally at a feast. The desk rocked. A crystal paperweight trembled near her elbow. His groans were raw, unfiltered, every sound a portrait of his own unraveling.
He released her hair, his hand splaying across the small of her back to press her down, holding her still for his final, devastating drives. His other hand slipped around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles.
The dual assault was too much. Her second climax ripped through her like a seismic event, a silent, open-mouthed scream tearing from her as her body locked and shuddered around him. The intense, pulsing clench of her was his end.
With a gutteral shout that was more pain than pleasure, he plunged deep and held, his body jerking as he emptied himself inside her in hot, pulsing streams. He collapsed over her, his sweat-slick chest pressed to her back, his weight pinning her to the desk. They stayed like that for long minutes, only the sound of their ragged breaths cutting the silence.
He eventually shifted, softening inside her. He pressed a kiss, surprisingly gentle, to the knob of her spine. He helped her stand, her legs buckling immediately. He caught her, lifting her into his arms as if she weighed nothing.
He carried her from the library, down a hall, and into a vast, grey-tiled bathroom. He set her on the counter and turned on the shower, steam beginning to fog the mirrors. He didn’t speak. His hands, which had been so brutal minutes before, were careful as he washed her, rinsing the sweat and the evidence of their coupling from her skin.
He toweled her dry with the same focused silence, then wrapped her in a soft robe that smelled like him. He led her to the bedroom, to a bed much larger than her own, and pulled back the covers. She slid in. He disappeared into the bathroom again, and she heard the shower restart.
When he emerged, his hair dark and damp, he slid into bed beside her, still naked. He turned off the light, plunging the room into the soft glow of the city beyond the windows. He didn’t pull her to him immediately. The space between them in the large bed felt vast and significant.
Then his hand found hers in the darkness. His fingers laced through hers, his grip tight, almost desperate. That simple, wordless connection in the dark, after everything, felt more intimate than anything else that had happened. It felt like a beginning, and like a confession he still couldn’t voice.