Page 77 of The Colour of Revenge

Her dress—pink, of course—flows around her thighs, delicate and soft, a stark contrast to the wicked little thing wearing it. I shove the fabric to her waist with a rough tug, revealing the lacy pink thong beneath.

I chuckle darkly. “You really do love pink, don’t you?”

“You want to get into this now?” she mutters, glancing over her shoulder, one brow raised.

Fair point.

I hook my fingers into the lace and rip.

She gasps. “Nate!”

“Shh, Princess,” I murmur, tucking the shredded scrap into my pocket. “What did I say about being quiet?”

She huffs, but it’s quieter this time. “That was my favourite pair.”

I smirk. “I’ll buy you more.”

Her bare, glistening cunt is practically begging for me, but I give in to one last indulgence—dragging my fingers through her wet heat, groaning at how ready she is for me.

“Nate,” she snaps, squirming. “Just fuck me. Please.”

Her plea undoes me.

Grasping her hips, I free my cock, not bothering to push my trousers down fully. I drag the thick, engorged head over her soaked slit, teasing, torturing—

Then I thrust inside.

A ragged moan rips from her throat as I bury myself deep, her walls gripping me like she never wants to let go.Jesus Christ.

“You’re my dream fucking woman,” I growl, driving into her, my hips slamming against hers with an intensity that borders on desperation.

The desk creaks beneath us. The sound of skin against skin fills the office.

Carina’s breathless, incoherent moans spur me on harder, deeper, faster.

I’ll never be able to sit in this office again without thinking about being buried inside her.

Her fingers claw at the desk, her body tightening around me as she climbs higher.

“Nate—fuck—don’t stop.”

Like I could.

“That’s it, baby,” I groan, dragging my palm down her spine before reaching around to flick her clit.

Her sharp cry is muffled against the desk, her inner walls fluttering around me, her orgasm hitting her like a shockwave.

She squeezes me so fucking tight, and it’s my undoing.

With a final, punishing thrust, I spill inside her, my release marking her as mine.

Claiming her.

I collapse over her, pressing lazy kisses along her shoulder, my lips trailing up to her neck. Carina turns her face toward me, and I steal a slow, lingering kiss. It’s not rushed or desperate this time—it’s gentle, grounding, something that feels dangerously close to real.

We clean up in the laziest way possible—tissues, half-hearted swipes, zero effort at damage control—and then pull our clothes back on.

As if nothing happened, she settles back into my lap, scrolling through a report while I try to focus on my laptop.