He laughs, catching me easily. Lifting me off my feet, he carries me the few steps back to his desk. With a sweep of his arm, he clears it, sending papers fluttering to the carpet as he lays me on it. Pushing me backward, he forces my legs apart and takes his place between them. As he undoes his belt, his trousers, that ink on his face makes him appear to be grinning as he leans over me even though he’s not. Not at all. His eyes are dark, almost black, and I see sorrow and resignation along with betrayal and pain, especially pain, inside them. When he pushes into me, all I can do is grunt, reach up to hold his shoulders, and take his thrusts as tears stream down the sides of my face.

“Look at it,” he says, forcing me to turn my head.

“No!” I fight him, reach up to claw his face.

He captures my wrists, and I pull against him, hauling myself up with his cock still inside me.

“Please, Santiago,” I start as I hear his breath grow more ragged and see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He releases my wrists and cups my ass to pull me to the edge of the desk. I push his hair back from his face. Our eyes are locked, and I study him as I take him and, cupping the back of his head, I draw him to me and kiss him. I kiss his face, kiss the skull side, feel the scars beneath the ink. I kiss the corner of his mouth, remembering how he bit my lip the last time, how he’d drawn blood, but I only kiss him. Kiss him full on the mouth as he leans us both back down not pulling away from my kiss, not biting.

“Ivy,” he mutters against my lips, then kisses me back, thrusting harder, faster.

“Make me come,” I say, my hands on his face to make him look at me. See me. “Make me come.”

He shifts one hand between us, and the touch of his fingers to my clit makes me come as he watches me. I arch my back and push against him, then pull his face to mine again, making him kiss me again, taking his final thrusts, swallowing his moan as his release comes, body rigid, every muscle tight, cock throbbing.

When his eyes come back into focus, and he eases his grip, a drop of sweat falls from his forehead to my cheek.

He looks at me. We’re so close. Closer than ever.

“Why?” he asks, voice broken, desperate. “Why, Ivy?”

I brush back sweat-slicked hair. “I swear to you, I swear on my life, I didn’t. I did not do what you’re accusing me of.”