Bloody hell, he ramps up his pace and intensity, ploughing into me with such blunt force that my vagina should really develop a survival instinct that comes with several alarm bells, but it just carries on drinking up everything this guy has to give it.

Which is a lot.

I’m powerless against such a spectacular show of dominance, such a marathon of masculinity. Every single thing in my life reduces to this one point of contact where he’s doing battle with his majestic dick. The heat builds and then releases inside my body like the most beautiful crescendo, and I’m molten and boneless and gooey as my orgasm wrings me out over and over, vaguely aware that the gorgeous man behind me is letting rip with a string of filthy curses at how gratifying he finds my reaction to him.

‘The way you fucking milk me,’ he rasps. ‘Jesus fuck, it should be fucking illegal. I can feel every fucking tremor.’

He’s not far behind me, going impossibly swollen and rigid before coming with a strangled roar and a volley of pumps that feel so staggeringly good against my sensitive flesh that they have me wondering what it would feel like if he were bare and emptying himself inside me rather than a condom.

No, Marlowe. Bad thought. Bad. Not only is this guy probably fucking half of London on his nights off, but he probably has super sperm. No more unplanned pregnancies, thank you very much.

When he’s done, he collapses on top of me, bracing himself on one hand so he can wrap the other one around my waist. Against my back, his chest radiates heat through the still-crisp cotton of his shirt. He lets out the most enormous sigh into my hair—the sated sigh of a victorious predator after a cardio-heavy hunt—before stroking the skin of my stomach with his hand. Deep inside me, his dick twitches. He releases me, straightening up, and I feel the loss of his body heat keenly.

I wince as he pulls out of me, and he slaps me on my bare bottom.

‘Well, that was very fucking good. I must get HR to add it to the onboarding manual.’

CHAPTER 22

Marlowe

‘The smoothies here are amazing, I have to say,’ Elaine tells me, gesturing around the palatial staff cafeteria. It’s a couple of floors down from the executive floor, a mainly white, light-filled space that looks like it’s been designed by a Zen master. Sure enough, there is an actual juice and smoothie bar that Tabby would love.