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His fingers slid back inside her—two at once, curling up with that maddening precision that made her body tense and writhe. But then—his other hand moved lower. Lower.
She gasped, hips jolting as his slick fingers brushed between the cheeks of her ass.
“Dante—”
“Shh,” he whispered darkly. “Let me.”
He coated her thoroughly, the wetness from her earlier release making it easy for him to rub slow, firm circles around her most sensitive spots, both front and back, switching from one to the other in a rhythm that left her breathless. He was exploring her body like it was his to own. And it was. She felt it in every touch, every growl, every possessive word.
“I want all of you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Every inch. Every part.”
His hands didn’t stop moving. He had her arching off the desk again, moaning, begging, as he brought her to another edge—one she hadn’t even realized she was near.
She cried out as she came again, trembling beneath his touch, body quaking, completely undone by the wicked rhythm of his fingers.
But he didn’t let her rest.
He stood between her trembling legs, and for the first time, his movements slowed. His expression changed—still dark, still hungry—but his touch gentled. His hand slid over her stomach, fingers splayed wide, grounding her.
He lined himself up again, brushing the head of his rod against her wet entrance, and this time, he eased in slowly—inch by thick inch—making her feel every stretch, every pull of skin and heat.
Anya’s head fell back, mouth parting in a silent gasp.
He kissed her collarbone. “Look at me,” he ordered gently.
She did. Her eyes met his, and in them she saw something dangerous—but also something unspoken. Something that made her chest tighten even as her body burned.
He rocked into her slowly, his grip on her thigh firm, his other hand stroking along her side like he was calming a storm. “Feel this,” he murmured. “Every time I move, I want you to remember—this is mine.”
She nodded weakly, breath stuttering as he thrust again, a slow, deep motion that made her toes curl and her eyes sting from the pressure building again. He kept the rhythm unhurried, controlled, watching her fall apart beneath him with every motion.
But as her walls tightened again around him, as her nails raked down his arms, and her lips parted with another desperate moan—something snapped in him.
“Enough,” he growled.
The pace changed in an instant.
He gripped her thighs, slammed her further up onto the desk, and drove into her hard, fast, relentless. His body crashed into hers over and over, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the room, her cries of pleasure swallowed by his mouth when he crushed his lips to hers again.
She was nearly sobbing his name now, body rocking with every punishing thrust.
“You take me so well,” he groaned, voice rough with strain. “So tight. So wet. And you still want more?”
“Y-yes,” she choked, barely able to get the word out between gasps.
He thrust harder. “Say it.”
“I want more—please, Dante—don’t stop—”
“Good girl.”
He gritted his teeth and moved faster, every muscle in his body coiled tight, his grip brutal and steady as she shattered again beneath him—her back arched, body limp with release.
And then he followed, with a guttural groan torn from his chest as he buried himself deep one last time, holding her tight, his breath ragged against her neck.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The only sound was their heavy breathing, the faint creak of the desk beneath them.