Page 46 of Selfish Suit

He lifts me onto the desk in one smooth motion, and before I can even catch a breath, he’s inside me—hard. Deep. No buildup. Just raw, relentless need.

I cry out, back arching against him, nails scraping across his shoulders.

His rhythm is brutal—unforgiving. Like he’s trying to erase every word we said before this.

“This changes nothing,” I breathe.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he growls, slamming into me harder.

I cling to him, matching every thrust, every bite of pressure, like I’m chasing a high I don’t want to come down from.

Our bodies slap against the wood, breath ragged, sweat slicking our skin, and the tension we’ve been choking on all week finally explodes between us.

When it’s over, we’re both breathless. Quiet. Eyes locked like we have no idea what the hell we just did.

He kisses my shoulder. His thumb strokes my thigh.

“We need to do that again before we go back to work,” he murmurs.

It’s not a question. It’s a promise.

Minutes later, we slip upstairs to the executive suite that’s connected to his office.

This time, there’s no anger. No chaos.

The shower’s barely on before he presses me against the wall, steam rising around us like fog swallowing the moment whole.

He kisses me slower now—his tongue tracing the seam of my lips, his hands sliding under my thighs to lift me again.

The tile is cool on my back. His body is hot, hard, and completely in control.

His mouth finds my neck, then lower. His hands grip my hips, tilting me to meet every slow, devastating thrust.

“I should hate you right now,” I whisper.

“You don’t,” he says, eyes burning into mine. “Not even close.”

His pace is unhurried, deep. Like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s trying to make me stay.

Fingers tangle in wet hair. Legs wrapped around him.

Every moan is swallowed by the water. Every breath feels stolen.

Something about this round feels different—dangerous. Not just because it’s slower, but because it feels like he means it.

And I don’t want that. I don’t want to name whatever this is.

After, we change back into our clothes and head back down to the war room.

No one says anything when we return. It’s as if our argument happened ages ago, and they’re far too tired. Too focused.

I settle into my seat and work, finding Dominic’s eyes in between readouts. His fingers graze mine when he hands over notes, and I follow him out of the room four times for a kiss in the hallway.

It feels like I’m floating on air, like maybe—just maybe, we are an “us,” but I know better than to let that thought go any further than one sentence.

Because somewhere between round one and round two, I realized something.

This can’t (and won’t) last.

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