Page 29 of The Colour of Revenge

The lace is already soaked through.

My jaw tightens. "Move them to the side. Let me see you."

Her head snaps up, eyes locked onto mine through the camera. "Not until I see you too."

A challenge.

She doesn't have to ask me twice.

With my free hand, I glance at the locked office door. Thank fuck. The last thing I need is to star in tomorrow's company-wide memo:

"Friendly reminder: No dicks out on company property. Regards, Nate (said dick enthusiast)."

Because, of course, as the boss, it would be my job to berate myself.

I smirk. "Let's see who breaks first, Princess."

She sucks in a sharp breath, her gaze locking onto mine—dark with lust. And something more.

Something deeper.

I stroke myself slowly, imagining her mouth instead of my hand. "Show me that pussy, Carina." The words come out rough, edged with need, like a command wrapped in longing.

I don't recognise this side of myself—this man who takes, demands, claims—but I don't question it. Neither does she.

Her eyes widen, flickering with heat, and then, with deliberate slowness, she slides the lace aside.

My breath leaves me.

She's already drenched, her fingers grazing over her clit in a way that has her gasping, her body arching slightly as she watches me. I study the way she circles the bud, memorising the pattern so that when I finally get my hands on her, I know exactly how to please her, how to make her body sing with pleasure.

"Fuck," I groan, tightening my grip.

"I want you to push two fingers inside," I rasp, pulse hammering. "Pretend it's my cock you're squeezing."

She moans, her head tipping back, and then—she obeys.

"Nate…"

"I know, baby," I murmur, my voice strained. "Your cunt feels so good. So tight."

I can see it. Feel it.

She moves against her hand, her thumb rubbing tight circles against her clit while she pushes three fingers deep into her soaking heat. Her breath stutters, her body shivering with pleasure.

The tip of my cock throbs, leaking pre-cum as I watch her come undone.

"Nate…" My name is a desperate whimper, her body writhing. "I'm going to come."

"Let me see," I urge, my strokes turning frantic.

Her back arches as she grinds against her hand, eyes rolling back as her orgasm crashes through her. She trembles, gasping, moaning my name like it's the only word she knows.

And that's it.

Game over.

My own release hits like a freight train, and I'm left trying to do damage control with a fistful of tissues, barely managing to stop my trousers from becoming a crime scene. It's a miracle I don't accidentally knock my coffee cup over in the process, though the desk is definitely questioning all its life choices right now.