The fluorescent lights of the Sterling & Hawes office building hummed a low, monotonous drone, a soundtrack to the sterile silence of the deserted 14th floor. Sarah leaned against the cool edge of her desk, her fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on its laminate surface. The clock on the wall ticked past 8:15 PM. He was late.
It had been three years. Three years since she’d walked out of that airport, tears blurring her vision, clenching a one-way ticket to London. Three years since his promotion had torn a rift through their relationship, a chasm of bruised egos and unspoken resentments. Now, a merger between Sterling & Hawes and his firm, Baxter International, had forced the collision of their worlds.
The conference room door was a dark, polished slab of wood. The only sound left was her own heartbeat, a frantic thrum in her ears. She smoothed the dark blue silk of her blouse, a deliberate choice. Professional, but clinging in a way that whispered of curves. She wore a black pencil skirt that ended just above her knees, and heels that made her calves ache. She wanted to look like the woman who’d built a career from the ground up, not the one who’d fled.
A sharp click of a key card, and the door swung inward. And there he was.
Marcus.
Time hadn’t dulled him. It had sharpened his edges. His jaw was more defined, the dark stubble on his chin sanded to a perfect five-o’clock shadow. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, widened when they landed on her, then narrowed, a muscle in his temple twitching. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin, the white shirt stark against his tanned neck. A silver watch glinted at his wrist, a detail she’d bought him for their last anniversary.
“Sarah,” he said, his voice a low gravel she remembered from a thousand nights in her ear. It wasn’t a greeting; it was a declaration.
“Marcus,” she replied, her own voice surprisingly steady. “They said you’d be going over the due diligence files alone tonight. I requested a transfer to this floor last week.”
A flicker of something—surprise, or maybe that old fire—crossed his face. “You knew I’d be here.”
“I bet on it.”
He stepped fully into the room, letting the door click shut behind him. The silence thickened, pressing in on them like a physical weight. He didn’t move toward his desk. He just stood, his gaze raking over her, slow and deliberate. He started with her heels, trailing up her legs, over the curve of her hips hidden by the skirt, pausing at the swell of her breasts beneath the silk, and finally meeting her eyes.
“You look… different,” he said, his tone unreadable. “Successful.”
“So do you. More arrogant, if that’s possible.”
A ghost of a smile played on his lips. It was the old Marcus, the one who could debate a client into submission and charm her into bed in the same breath. “You always did know how to land a punch.”
“I learned from the best.”
The tension was a live wire. She could feel the heat radiating from him even from five feet away. Three years of silence, of unresolved fury, of aching loneliness—it all condensed into the space between them. She took a step forward, her heel clicking sharply on the tile. He didn’t retreat.
“Why are you here, Sarah?” he asked, his voice dropping lower. “To throw a file in my face? To prove you’ve made it on your own?”
“No,” she said, closing the distance to a single foot. She could smell him now—sandalwood and clean sweat and the faint tang of coffee. “I’m here because I’m tired of pretending I don’t remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Everything.” Her voice cracked, and she hated it. “The way you’d kiss me goodbye. The way you’d hold me after a fight. The way you made me feel like I was the only woman in the world. And then you threw it away for a corner office.”
His jaw clenched. “You walked out, Sarah. You didn’t even let me explain.”
“Explain what? That I wasn’t good enough for the new Marcus Baxter? That I was just a distraction from your ambition?”
“No,” he said, his voice raw. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was electric, a jolt that raced down her spine and settled as a dull ache between her legs. “That I was a coward. I was scared you’d leave if you saw how much I needed you.”
“And now?” she whispered, leaning into his hand.
“Now I don’t give a damn about being scared.”
He pulled her into him, his mouth crashing against hers. It wasn’t soft or tentative; it was a claim, a raid. His lips were firm, his tongue sliding past her teeth to taste her, and she moaned against him, her hands fisting the lapels of his jacket. The kiss was a fever, three years of hunger condensed into a single, devastating moment. Her body remembered. The way his hand cradled the back of her neck. The way he bit her bottom lip just hard enough to make her gasp. The way his other hand slid down her back, fingers splaying across her ass through the fabric of her skirt.
He broke the kiss, breathing ragged. “Not here. My office is down the hall.”
“I don’t care,” she said, her voice thick with desire. “I’ve been waiting three years. I’m not waiting another minute.”
He didn’t argue. He took her hand, his grip firm, and led her down the hall to a door marked “Baxter, M.” The office was cavernous, a glass desk dominating the space, a floor-to-ceiling window looking out on the city’s glittering skyline. He locked the door behind them.
Without a word, he turned her around and pressed her against the glass. The cool pane bit into her back. He stood behind her, his body a furnace of heat, his hands gripping her hips. “You still wear your hair the same way,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “I used to dream of burying my hands in it.”
“Stop talking,” she breathed.
He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated against her skin. “Bossy as ever.” But he obeyed, his hands sliding up her sides, taking the hem of her blouse with them. He pulled it over her head, tossing it aside, and his breath caught. She wore a lace bra the color of deep burgundy, the cups barely containing her. He unclasped it with practiced ease, and it fell away, leaving her bare to the waist, her nipples tightening in the cool air.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts. He leaned down and took one nipple in his mouth, his tongue circling the peak before sucking hard. She cried out, her hips bucking back against his growing hardness. His hands found her skirt, unzipping it, and she stepped out of it, left in only her black lace panties and heels.
He turned her again to face him, his eyes dark with lust. He dropped to his knees, his hands gripping her thighs, and pressed a kiss to her belly, just above the waistband. “I want to taste you,” he said, his voice rough. “I need to remember how you feel on my tongue.”
She threaded her fingers through his hair, her heart hammering. “Then do it.”
He hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and slid them down her thighs. She stepped out of them, and he looked up at her, his gaze burning into her. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then the other, each touch a brand. Then he parted her folds with his thumbs and dipped his head.
His mouth was heaven. His tongue was firm, finding her clit with unerring precision, circling and flicking until she was trembling. He sucked gently, then harder, one hand sliding up to cup her breast, the other digging into the flesh of her ass. She bucked against his mouth, her moans filling the office. The glass was cool against her back, but inside she was molten, a river of heat cresting toward a peak.
“Please, Marcus,” she gasped. “I’m close.”
He didn’t stop, but he used two fingers to slide inside her, curling them to stroke that sweet spot. She shattered, crying out his name as the orgasm tore through her, wave after wave of pleasure. He stayed with her, his tongue easing her through it, until she slumped against the glass, breathless.
He stood, his own need evident in the bulge straining against his trousers. “Your turn,” she said, reaching for his belt.
He stopped her hand. “Not yet. I want to be inside you. I want to feel you around me.”
He unfastened his trousers, letting them fall, and she helped him push his boxer briefs down. His cock was thick, flushed, and she wrapped her hand around it, stroking once, twice, until he groaned. “Sarah,” he warned.
She leaned forward and took the head into her mouth, tasting herself on him. He cursed, his fingers tightening in her hair. For a moment, she worked him, her tongue tracing the vein on the underside, her lips sliding down the shaft. But he pulled her up, shaking his head.
“If you keep that up, this will be over too fast,” he said, his eyes glazed.
He led her to his desk, sweeping papers aside with one arm. He lifted her onto the cold wood, her legs hanging over the edge. Then he stood between them, his cock pressing against her wetness, teasing but not entering. “Tell me you want it,” he said, his voice a growl.
“I want it. I want you.”
He thrust into her, a single, smooth motion that filled her completely. She gasped, her head falling back, her hands bracing on the desk. He was thick, stretching her in a way she craved, a way that was uniquely him. He began to move, slow at first, each stroke deliberate, his eyes locked on hers.
“Look at me,” he said. “Don’t look away.”
She couldn’t. He was driving into her, his pace building, the desk creaking beneath them. Her nails dug into the wood, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. The pleasure was a spiral, tightening in her core, her second orgasm building faster than the first.
“I’m close,” she managed.
“Not yet. Wait for me.”
He angled his hips, hitting a spot that made her see stars. She gritted her teeth, trying to hold back, but it was too much. “I can’t,” she whimpered.
“Then let go,” he said, his voice ragged, his own control fraying. “Let go with me.”
He thrust deep, and she came, her inner walls clenching around him, and he followed, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he spilled inside her. They stayed like that, locked together, breathing harsh in the quiet.
He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. “I’m not letting you walk away again,” he said.
She smiled, cupping his face. “You’d have to fight me for the door.”
“I’ll take that challenge.”
She laughed, and for the first time in three years, the city
