The air in the Garcia-Williams living room was thick with polite chatter and the clinking of champagne flutes. Marcus stood near the bay window, a half-empty glass warming in his hand, watching the rain streak the glass like tears. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not really, not in the way that mattered. He was a colleague of Daniel’s, a guest at the party. But Elena, Daniel’s wife, was the reason he had accepted the invitation.
She moved through the crowd like a flame, all auburn hair and a dress the color of a bruise—deep purple, clinging to every curve. When her eyes met his across the room, a secret current passed between them, a jolt of heat that made his throat dry. She was speaking to a group of women, her laugh a practiced, polite sound, but her gaze lingered on him for a beat too long.
Marcus shifted his weight, the fabric of his trousers tightening at the thought. For three months, they had met in stolen hours: a hotel room at lunch, the back seat of his car in a parking garage, a frantic, breathless encounter in the alley behind the office Christmas party. This was the most dangerous yet—under the roof she shared with her husband, with forty people as unknowing witnesses.
He watched her excuse herself, her hand touching her throat as if she needed air. She drifted toward the hallway that led to the guest bathroom, but she cast a glance over her shoulder—a flicker of her lashes, a ghost of a smile—and he understood. The library. Daniel’s study. The one room the guests never used.
Setting his glass down on a side table, Marcus waited a full minute, counting his breaths. Then he followed, his footfalls silent on the plush carpet. He passed a couple arguing softly about their flight home, a teen nephew glued to his phone, a server with a tray of mini crab cakes. No one noticed him.
The door to Daniel’s study was slightly ajar, a sliver of amber light spilling into the dim hall. He pushed it open and stepped inside, closing it behind him with a soft click that felt louder than a gunshot.
The room smelled of leather, old books, and her perfume—something floral and dark, like night-blooming jasmine. Elena was standing by the massive mahogany desk, her back to him. She hadn’t turned on the main light, just a brass desk lamp that cast long shadows across her silhouette.
“You’re insane,” Marcus said, his voice low.
She turned slowly. The bruise-purple dress had a neckline that dipped dangerously low, and the lamplight painted a shadow between her breasts. “I know.” Her smile was sharp, hungry. “But he’s busy being the host. We have fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”
Marcus crossed the room in three strides. He didn’t stop until he was close enough to feel the heat of her body. “This is reckless.”
“That’s why you like it.” She reached up and traced his jaw with one red-tipped nail. Her touch sent a shiver down his spine, settling in his groin. “That’s why you’ll remember.”
He caught her wrist, holding her hand against his cheek. “I don’t need the risk to remember.”
Her eyes softened, but only for a moment. Then she was pulling him down, her mouth meeting his in a kiss that was all urgency and pent-up desire. Her lips parted under his, her tongue sliding against his, tasting of champagne and something tart. Marcus groaned against her mouth, his hands finding her waist, pulling her against him until he felt the soft curve of her belly, the press of her breasts.
She broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Lock the door.”
He did, his hand trembling slightly. When he turned back, Elena was already gathering the hem of her dress, hiking it up her thighs. She wore no stockings, just bare skin that glowed in the amber light.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Marcus whispered.
“Don’t talk,” she said, stepping out of her heels. “Just do.”
He needed no further encouragement. He moved to her, covering her mouth with his again as his hands found her bare thighs, sliding up under the dress until he felt the damp heat of her. She was already wet, the fabric of her panties saturated. He traced the seam of her through the silk, and she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Please,” she breathed.
Marcus sank to his knees in front of her. The thick carpet was soft under him. He pressed his face to her stomach, breathing her in, then kissed a trail down to the waistband of her panties. With agonizing slowness, he hooked his thumbs into the elastic and pulled them down. She stepped out of them, and he tucked them into his jacket pocket—a keepsake for later.
He looked up at her. She was propping herself against the desk, her eyes half-closed, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her dress was bunched around her hips, revealing the dark triangle of hair between her legs.
He leaned in and tasted her.
Her flavor flooded his senses: salt and musk and warmth. She gasped, her hand flying to the back of his head, tangling in his hair. He worked her slowly at first, with the flat of his tongue, then more deliberately, circling the tight bud of her clit until she was trembling. Her hips rocked against his mouth, and he groaned at the pressure, the way she fucked his face without shame.
“Yes,” she hissed. “Like that. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He sucked her clit between his lips, flicking his tongue against her, feeling her legs start to shake. A low sound came from her throat, barely a whimper, and then her body tightened, her hand fisting in his hair as she came. He felt the pulse of her against his tongue, tasted the flood of her release, and he drank her down, not stopping until she relaxed with a shudder.
She pulled him up by the lapels of his jacket. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen. “Now you,” she said.
Marcus was already hard, straining against the zipper of his trousers. He unbuckled his belt with one hand while she worked his buttons, her fingers nimble. When they parted his shirt, she drew a sharp breath, running her hands down his chest.
“I love your body,” she said, and the raw honesty in her voice made his heart ache.
He kicked off his shoes and pushed his trousers and boxers down together, stepping out of them. He was fully erect, the head of his cock glistening in the lamplight.
Elena took him in her hand, her grip firm and practiced. She stroked him once, twice, and he pushed into her hand, hissing.
“Not yet,” he said, his voice ragged. “I want to be inside you.”
She turned around, bracing her hands on the desk, arching her back. The dress slid down her ribs, exposing the curve of her spine, the swell of her ass. Marcus moved behind her, his hands finding her hips, guiding himself to her entrance. She was still slick from his mouth, and he slid into her in one smooth, wet stroke.
They both gasped. She was tight and hot around him, gripping him like a fist. He held still for a moment, letting her adjust, feeling the pulse of her inner muscles.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
He began to move, slow at first, deep and deliberate. Each thrust pressed his body against hers, the sounds of their joining a wet, rhythmic slap. He buried his face in her hair, kissing the back of her neck, tasting her skin—sweat and perfume.
“Harder,” she demanded.
He obeyed, his pace quickening, his hands gripping her hips as he drove into her. Her moans grew louder, and he leaned over her, covering her mouth with one hand. “Shh,” he breathed. “The walls are thin.”
She nipped at his palm, then bit down, the sharp sting shooting through him like lightning. He fucked her harder, faster, losing himself in the heat of her, the feeling of being buried inside a woman who was not his but at this moment, as he moved inside her, she was entirely his.
Her body tensed, her hands scrabbling against the polished wood of the desk. She came again, a muffled cry against his hand, her body clenching around him in waves. The sensation was too much. He pulled out at the last second, his release painting the inside of her thigh in hot streaks.
They stayed like that for a long moment, panting, their bodies slick with sweat. Then Marcus lowered his hand from her mouth and kissed her shoulder.
Elena straightened, pulling down her dress. She turned, her smile hazy and content, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “You should go first. I’ll follow in a few minutes.”
Marcus nodded, his heart still pounding. He pulled his trousers back on, tucked in his shirt, and ran a hand through his hair. As he reached for the door, she caught his wrist.
“Same time next week?” she asked, her voice teasing.
He looked at her, standing there with her dress askew and the flush of sex still on her skin. “Same time.”
He slipped out into the hallway, adjusting his collar. He passed the knot of guests, exchanged a nod with a man holding a scotch, and drifted toward the living room where Daniel was holding court near the fireplace.
“Marcus!” Daniel waved him over. “I was afraid you’d escaped. Can I get you another drink?”
“No, I think I’m good,” Marcus said, meeting his smile with one of his own. He caught a glimpse of Elena in the doorway, her hair smoothed, her nails perfect. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. Then she turned, laughing at something another woman said, and vanished back into the crowd.
The secret burned inside him like a low fire. And he knew, even as he shook Daniel’s hand and said goodnight, that he would be back.
