When it’s over, he shifts us both to one side, preventing me from being crushed by his weight without pulling out. One of those floating blackout moments follows for God knows how long. I come out of it slowly, spurred by his gentle fingers as they swirl up and down my side, across the swell of my breast and around the edge of my pebbled nipple where it presses against his chest.

Once again, I open my eyes to discover him watching me, unblinking. Both our heads are on the same pillow. His expression is open. Relaxed. There’s no sign of the Beast or the real estate titan in his dark power suit.

Only a man capable of surprising tenderness as he smooths my hair away from my temple and tucks it behind my ear.

I wonder if he ever thought of me as anything other than his intrepid assistant before tonight. I wonder what he thinks of me now and whether he wishes we could have more time together. Most of all, I wonder how I can go back to work on Monday as if none of this ever happened.

But those are questions for another time.

If dying while he’s fucking me is my number one option, meeting my maker like this is a close second. I could study his face all day and never get bored. I want to know all his secrets. I want to see him smile. I want a million more nights with him, exactly like this.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m no fool. I know that every woman who shares his bed (and there are a lot of them) probably ends up feeling exactly this same way. I know there are a lot of women receiving a lot of don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-on-the-ass-on-your-way-out bouquets of flowers. I know both that I’ve just added myself to their ranks and that he’ll disappear before the sun comes up. I know that tonight is all I’ll ever have of him.

That being the case, I plan to make tonight count.

So I roll over, pushing him to his back as I straddle him. Note the way his eyes widen, and he stares up at me with rapt attention. Lean down for a nipping little kiss that he returns with interest and start working on round two.