Page 82 of Theirs to Hunt

But I don’t want to sit across from him.

I want to get on my knees.

“Anything else?” I ask, and my tone makes his eyes sharpen.

“Yes,” he says, leaning back. “But if you keep looking at me like that, I won’t remember a word.”

I push off the desk and slide between his legs, sinking to my knees.

“Reagan,” he warns.

Too late.

I unbuckle his belt, unzip, glance up with the look he said he couldn’t resist.

“Let me congratulate you, boss.”

His jaw flexes. I see the exact second his restraint snaps.

One hand threads into my hair, slow and possessive. His grip says don’t stop.

“You really want to do this here?” His voice is rough, low, dangerous in the way bourbon is dangerous. Smooth going down, then it hits.

I stroke him once, slow, lick the head. His breath stutters.

“Fawn, fuck, you’re a vixen.”

When I take him deeper, his other hand clamps the desk. His hips twitch forward. He’s close.

“Reagan,” he rasps, holding on.

I press my tongue harder, faster.

He curses and comes hot down my throat. I swallow every drop, clean him up like a thank-you note.

When I stand, I whisper, “Congratulations again, boss.”

He grabs my wrist. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

I grin. “That’s the only kind worth playing.”

I smooth my skirt down, hips swaying, lace flashing just enough to show the garter.

That’s when his control shatters.

In one brutal motion, he lifts me, throws me across the desk. Papers scatter.

“Gray—”

“Quiet.” His growl hits my spine. “You walk in here with that smug little mouth, then get on your knees? You think you’re in control?”

He shoves my skirt to my waist, yanks my panties aside. His mouth is on me before I can think.

Relentless. Hot. Starving.

His tongue flicks my clit in a ruthless rhythm and I break. My orgasm hits fast, brutal, wrecking.

“Come for me, little fawn,” he says against me. “Right here on my desk. Mark it.”