Page 6 of His to Command (Obsessed #7)

I should ask for more confirmation, should insist on a condom anyway, but rational thought has abandoned me. I need him with an urgency that overrides caution, propriety, common sense.

He pushes my skirt up around my waist, hooks his fingers in my underwear and drags them down my legs. The cool air on my exposed skin makes me shiver—or maybe it's the heat in his eyes as he looks at me, flushed and wanting on his conference table.

His pants and boxer briefs drop just enough to free him. He's huge, intimidating, perfect. His hand wraps around himself, pumping once, twice, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Last chance to stop this," he says, voice strained with the effort of restraint.

In answer, I reach for him, guiding him to where I'm wet and aching. "Don't stop," I whisper.

With one powerful thrust, he's inside me, stretching, filling, claiming. We both cry out at the sensation. For a moment neither of us moves, overwhelmed by the intensity of the connection.

"Robin," he breathes, reverent, strained. "You feel?—"

"I know," I gasp, because I do. It's unlike anything I've ever experienced—this fullness, this rightness, this sense of completion.

Then he begins to move, and coherent thought dissolves.

There's only sensation—his hands gripping my hips, his mouth devouring mine, the delicious friction as he drives into me.

The table creaks beneath us, pens and papers scattering with each thrust. I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper.

"Mine," he growls against my throat, the word a vow, a brand. "Say it. Say you're mine."

I should resist this possessiveness, this claim-staking. Instead, it ignites something primal in me, something that wants to be claimed, possessed, cherished.

"Yours," I gasp as his rhythm intensifies. "I'm yours, Hudson."

His response is a snarl of satisfaction. One hand slides between us, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves where our bodies join. His fingers circle, press, driving me toward an edge I can feel approaching with startling speed.

"Come for me," he commands, eyes locked on mine. "Let me see you come apart."

The intensity in his gaze, the command in his voice, the skilled movement of his fingers, the relentless rhythm of his body driving into mine—it's too much. Pleasure coils tight, then explodes in waves that tear a cry from my throat. My body clamps around him, pulsing, grasping.

"That's it," he groans, watching me with possessive awe. "So beautiful. My beautiful Robin."

His thrusts grow erratic, forceful. His hands tighten on my hips, hard enough to leave marks. With a final, deep thrust, he stiffens, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he finds his own release.

For long moments, we stay joined, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to mine. Reality returns in increments—the hard surface beneath me, the scattered papers, the city lights beyond the window. The magnitude of what we've done.

I've just had sex with my boss. On his conference table. In his office. Rules shattered beyond repair.

Hudson must sense my thoughts shifting. He lifts his head, cupping my face with surprising gentleness. "Don't," he says softly. "Don't go into your head and start overthinking this."

"Hudson, we?—"

"We gave in to something inevitable." His eyes hold mine, intense and certain. "Something that's been building since the moment we saw each other."

He's right, but that doesn't erase the complications, the power imbalance, the professional boundaries crossed. "This changes everything."

"Yes," he agrees, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Everything." He eases away from me, tucking himself back into his pants before helping me down from the table. My legs wobble, uncertain.

I look at the evidence of our passion—my torn blouse, papers strewn across the floor, the edge of the table where I'll never be able to sit for a meeting again without blushing. Shame and excitement war within me.

"I should go," I whisper, fumbling to close my blouse despite the missing button.

Hudson catches my hands. "Stay."

"I can't."

"Can't? Or won't?" he echoes our earlier exchange.

I look up at him, at this man who's turned my carefully constructed life upside down in the span of days. "Both," I admit. "I need...time. To think. To process."

Something flickers in his eyes—frustration, possessiveness, determination. But he nods. "I'll have a car take you home."

"Thank you." I step back, creating physical distance I desperately need. "For understanding."

His smile holds no humor. "I don't understand. I don't want you walking away. But I'll let you. For tonight."

The implicit promise in his words—that this is temporary, that he's not done with me—sends a shiver down my spine. Fear? Anticipation? Both?

I gather my things in silence, hyperaware of his eyes tracking my every movement. At the door, I pause, turning back to find him exactly where I left him, powerful and disheveled and watching me with that singular focus.

"Hudson, I—" What can I say? That I regret this? I don't. That it can't happen again? I'm not sure I believe that.

"Go home, Robin," he says softly. "Rest. Tomorrow we'll talk."

I nod, grateful for the reprieve, and slip out the door. In the empty elevator descending to the lobby, I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair tousled by his hands. I look like a woman who's been thoroughly claimed.

And despite all my reservations, all my professional boundaries, all my carefully constructed rules—I don't hate it.

God help me, I want more.