“So close,” I cry out.

“Yes,” he grunts. He unleashes wild thrusts on me, groaning, “Want to watch you come.”

My eyes are closed, but I swear I can feel him staring at me as a wave of pleasure sweeps over, pulls me under, and overwhelms me.

Is he as turned on as I am? Is he falling apart watching me shatter? I hope so, oh God, I hope so. Because I’m breaking, and it’s intense. I part my lips, I cry out, and then my world spins away as pleasure spills over me, crashing across my skin.

I feel it everywhere. I don’t know if I’m quiet or loud. I don’t know if anyone can hear me, or if no one can.

But I can’t stop saying I’m coming, oh God, I’m coming over and over, because it feels like an endless orgasm. Like never-ending bliss.

With his hands digging into my hips, he slams into me, filling me deep as he trembles all over. When I open my eyes, I catch the tail-end of his orgasm. His face is contorted, his lips twisted and his jaw tight. After one final deep thrust, he tenses, grunts a primal moan of pleasure. Then, he relaxes.

I let my legs fall, my feet touching the floor. I’m wobbly at first. My bones need to shift from a liquid state to a solid one again. He pulls out, grabbing a tissue from the desk, and quickly disposing of the condom in a nearby trash can.

When he returns to me, there’s one more kiss coming my way.

A soft, sweet, after-the-fire kind of kiss.

A kiss that tells me this was rough and hot, but tender too.

A kiss that says he’d like another, and so would I.

“What’s your number?” he asks, and I grin, like a happy commoner, because the duke wants to see me again.

I start to tell him, then stop to ask if he wants to enter it in his cell.

Shaking his head, he dusts his lips to my neck. “I have an amazing memory.”

I shiver from the kiss, then rattle off all but the last three digits for him, when my phone chirps.

And chirps.

And chirps.

Then it hits me.

Bob Galloway.

Fear stabs at me—the worry that I’ll miss a big chance.

I blink, drop to my knees, grab my clutch, and rip it open, hunting for my mobile phone. It’s him.

I slide my thumb over the screen. “I have to take this call,” I whisper to my non-ninja duke.

I grab a bill from the halo on the desk, a five hundred. Waving it, I thrust it at him, mouthing, The last three digits of my number. I need to be alone for this call. I want to talk to a potential editor without looking at the man who fucked me, so I run for the door, clear my throat, and say, “Hello, Mr. Galloway,” once I reach the hallway.