The rain was a constant, drumming whisper against the tall windows of the study, a sound that usually soothed Eleanor’s nerves. Tonight, it did nothing but fray them further. She stood before the fireplace, the amber light from the flames licking at the silk of her emerald robe, a glass of untouched Pinot Noir sweating in her hand. Across the room, the grandfather clock’s ticking was a metronome counting down to a secret she was about to betray.
The key in the lock was a soft, metallic sigh. A sound she knew as well as her own heartbeat. The front door clicked shut, and the familiar, masculine scent of rain, cedarwood, and something uniquely *him*—Mark—drifted into the room, chasing away the sterile lavender she’d sprayed earlier.
He didn’t call out. He never did. He moved with the predatory silence of a man who knew exactly where to find her. Eleanor kept her back to the door, her knuckles white around the cool glass. She heard his footsteps on the Persian rug, muffled and deliberate, stopping just behind her.
“The rain’s getting worse,” she said, her voice a low hum, surprised by its steadiness.
“Good,” Mark’s voice was a gravelly baritone, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. “It means no one will be out. No one will see my car.” His hands found her shoulders, large and warm, his thumbs tracing the delicate line of her collarbones through the thin silk. “No one will see me come to you.”
Eleanor finally turned. He was still in his work clothes—a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing tanned, muscular forearms, a loosened slate-grey tie. He looked like a man who had just left the boardroom, yet his eyes, a stormy grey, held a tempest that had nothing to do with business. That tempest was for her.
“Is he gone?” Mark asked, his gaze dropping to her lips.
“On a flight to Singapore. Forty-eight hours,” she breathed.
A slow, possessive smile spread across his face. “Forty-eight hours is a lifetime.” He stepped forward, crowding her space, and she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze. He was so much larger than her, a solid wall of heat and promise. His hand came up, fingers tracing the edge of her jaw, tilting her chin up. “I’ve been thinking about you, Eleanor. Every minute of every day since I last saw you.”
“Tell me,” she whispered, her resolve crumbling under his intense focus.
“I was in a meeting with the CFO, pretending to listen to quarterly reports,” he murmured, his thumb brushing across her lower lip, slightly parting it. “But all I could see was you, the way you looked when I left your bedroom last Tuesday. Your hair a mess on my pillow, your skin still flushed. The little sigh you made when I kissed your neck before I had to go.”
Eleanor’s breath hitched. The memory was vivid—a stolen hour before he had to return to his own life, his own home, his own wife. She had watched him dress, a knot of guilt and raw, insatiable desire coiling in her gut. Here, in this beautiful house that belonged to her and her absent husband, Mark was her stolen treasure.
“Mark,” she began, a protest forming, but he silenced it with his mouth.
His kiss wasn’t tentative. It was a claiming. His lips were firm and demanding, tasting of coffee and a hint of the scotch he must have had with clients. He deepened it, his tongue sweeping in to meet hers in a familiar, intimate dance. Eleanor melted, her glass of wine forgotten as her hand flew up to grasp the lapel of his jacket. He groaned against her mouth, his own hands dropping to her waist, pulling her flush against him.
The kiss went on until they were both breathless, the fire’s crackle a punctuation to their ragged breathing. He pulled back, his eyes dark and dilated. “You wore the robe.”
Eleanor felt a blush creep up her neck. “You said you liked it.”
“I love what’s underneath it more,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. His hand found the sash of the robe, his fingers toying with the knot. “May I?”
Her answer was to reach up and unbutton the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing a sliver of his chest. “You’re still overdressed.”
With a slow, deliberate motion, he untied the sash. The emerald silk parted, falling open to reveal the curve of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, and the lacy whisper of black lingerie she’d chosen just for him. His eyes roamed over her, a low, appreciative curse escaping his lips.
“God, Eleanor,” he rasped. “You’re exquisite.”
He pushed the robe from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. His hands came up, cupping her breasts over the sheer lace of her bra, his thumbs circling her already tight nipples. She gasped, arching into his touch. He was deliberate, unhurried, cataloging every reaction she gave him.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded softly, and she obeyed, her body instinctively responding to the authority in his voice. He slid his hand down her stomach, under the waistband of her black lace panties, his fingers finding her slick and hot for him.
“You’re so ready for me,” he observed, his fingers grazing her clit with feather-light pressure.
“I’ve been ready since I hung up the phone this morning,” she confessed, her hips tilting into his hand. “Every since you said you were coming.”
He chuckled, a dark, possessive sound. “I’m going to take my time, love. I’m going to savor every inch of you.” He withdrew his hand, much to her dismay, and took a step back. “Undress me.”
The command was simple, but the way he looked at her—with a powerful, unrestrained hunger—made her feel vulnerable and powerful all at once. She stepped forward and began to methodically unbutton his shirt, her fingers brushing against the warm, hard planes of his stomach. She pushed the fabric over his shoulders, revealing his broad chest, dusted with dark hair that she let her fingers comb through.
She knelt, her hands going to his belt. He watched her, his breathing becoming shallow as she unbuckled it, then slowly unzipped his trousers. His erection strained against his boxer briefs, a thick, impressive outline. She pressed a kiss to the damp spot on the fabric, and he hissed in a sharp breath.
“Eleanor…”
She looked up at him, her eyes locking with his as she slowly pulled his briefs down. He sprang free, thick and heavy, and she wrapped her fingers around his shaft, stroking him slowly. His head fell back, a low moan escaping his throat. She licked her lips, then leaned forward and took the head of him into her mouth.
Mark’s hand dove into her hair, gripping the strands, a possessive anchor. “Yes,” he groaned. “Just like that.”
She took him deeper, her tongue swirling around his sensitive length, tasting the saltiness of his skin. She set a rhythm, a wet, decadent ballet, her hand working what her mouth couldn’t reach. He was thick, and she had to relax her jaw to take all of him. She loved the feeling of him filling her mouth, the taste of him, the power she held over him in that moment.
“Stop,” he gritted out, pulling gently on her hair. “I don’t want to finish like this. I need to be inside you.”
He hauled her to her feet, his mouth crashing down on hers again, tasting himself on her lips. He guided her backwards, his hands everywhere—gripping her ass, squeezing her hips, pressing against the small of her back. Her legs hit the edge of the plush leather chesterfield sofa, and he laid her down with a reverence that was contradicted by the raw passion in his eyes.
He knelt before her, at the foot of the sofa, his gaze fixed between her legs. He parted her thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. “I changed my mind,” he whispered, his breath hot against her core. “I want to taste you first.”
Before she could protest, his head was between her legs. His tongue was a hot, wet sliver that parted her folds and found her clit. Eleanor cried out, her back arching off the sofa. He was an artist, a maestro of pleasure. He lapped at her, sucked her, flicked his tongue with just the right amount of pressure until her legs were trembling and her mind was a white-hot haze.
He slid two fingers inside her, curling them against that spot that made stars burst behind her eyes. He worked her in tandem with his mouth, driving her closer and closer to the edge of a precipice.
“Mark, please,” she begged, her voice a strangled plea.
“Not yet,” he murmured against her, the vibration sending shockwaves through her. “I want to feel you come undone on my tongue.”
He doubled his efforts, his fingers pumping into her as his tongue circled her clit with vicious precision. The pressure built, a coil of sensation tightening deep in her belly. She was on the verge, whimpering, her hips moving involuntarily against his face. He looked up, his grey eyes meeting hers in the firelight, and he deliberately, slowly, suckled her clit between his lips.
The orgasm crashed into her, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her vision went white, and a cry of pure ecstasy tore from her throat. Her body convulsed, her inner muscles clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of sensation washed over her. Mark continued to lap at her, gentler now, riding out the aftershocks until she lay trembling beneath him.
“You taste like heaven,” he murmured, kissing his way up her stomach, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.
He reached her breasts, taking a taut nipple into his mouth. As he suckled, she felt the thick, blunt head of his erection pressing against her slick, sensitive entrance. He didn’t push in. He just rested there, a promise of what was to come.
“Look at me, Eleanor,” he commanded.
She forced her heavy-lidded eyes open, meeting his gaze. In them, she saw her own raw hunger mirrored back.
“I want you to know,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “that there is no one else. For this, there is only you.”
Then, with one powerful, fluid thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her.
Eleanor gasped, a sharp, shuddering sound as he filled her completely, stretching her, completing her. For a moment, neither of them moved. They were fused together, joined at the most intimate point, the only sound the crackle of the fire and their shaky, shared breaths.
He began to move, slowly, drawing almost all the way out before sliding back in with a delicious friction that made her toes curl. He planted his hands on either side of her head, his body a taut, muscular canopy over hers. His strokes were deep and measured, each one sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her core.
“You feel incredible,” he grunted, sweat beading on his brow. “So tight. So perfect.”
Eleanor wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. She tilted her hips, meeting his every thrust. This was more than just sex. This was a language they shared, a secret world they built together every few weeks when her husband was away and his
