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her skin.

Daniel's phone slipped from his fingers to the counter with a soft clack. He didn't pick it up.

She felt the shift in the room. The sudden weight of his undivided attention and rewarded him with the smallest, most wicked smile. Then she reached behind her back, fingers finding the hidden zipper at the nape of her neck. Very slowly, she slid it down. Inch by torturous inch. The sound was obscene in the quiet house: a long, metallic hiss that seemed to stroke down his spine. The bodice loosened. She shrugged one shoulder, then the other, letting the gray cotton slide down her arms until it caught at her elbows. The dress hung suspended there, barely covering her breasts, the upper curves fully exposed now. Creamy skin flushed rose, nipples dark pink and straining toward him.

She didn't remove it further. Instead she cupped her own breasts through the fallen fabric, lifting them, squeezing gently so the soft flesh spilled over her fingers. A low, throaty hum escaped her lips as her thumbs brushed over the tips—once, twice—making them tighten even more. Then she let her hands fall away and resumed dusting, the half-fallen dress swaying with every movement, threatening to slip lower with each breath. But the light felt heavier now, almost suffocating, as though the house itself held its breath. Every sound was amplified in the stillness: the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the hall, the soft rustle of Layla's dress when she shifted her weight, the ragged edge of Daniel's breathing that he could no longer quite control.

He hadn't moved from the kitchen island in ten full minutes. He watched her like a man watching something precious and forbidden slip further out of reach with every heartbeat.

Layla knew the exact moment the game changed. She had been dusting the same shelf for far too long and slow, repetitive strokes that served no purpose except to keep her body in motion, to keep the ache between her thighs from becoming unbearable. But when she felt the shift in him, the sudden stillness, the way his gaze stopped pretending to wander, she faltered. The feather duster trembled in her fingers for the first time all afternoon. She turned slowly. Their eyes met across the wide expanse of the great room, and something cracked open between them. Silent, irrevocable. No more teasing. No more games of plausible deniability.

She saw it in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his hands flexed once against the granite, knuckles whitening, then released as though he were forcing himself not to reach for her yet. She saw the hunger there, yes, but also something darker, more dangerous: the fear that if he crossed this last invisible line, he might never find his way back.

And she wanted him to cross it anyway.

She let the duster fall to the floor with a soft thud. The sound seemed to echo forever.

Daniel's throat worked. He took one step. Then another. Measured. Deliberate. Each footfall landed like a heartbeat they could both feel in their chests. "Everything all right up there?" he called, his voice low and rougher than usual, gravelly with the restraint he was barely holding onto, like sand slipping through his fingers.

Layla smiled, knowing, her full lips curving in a way that made his cock twitch she stepped off the low stepstool with feline grace. "Just making sure every inch gets attention, Mr. Calder."

The formal address landed like foreplay, a velvet whip cracking across his senses. She only used it when she wanted to remind him how wrong this was. How she was the help, he the employer, and yet here they were, dancing on the edge of something explosive. The words wrapped around him, warm and teasing, evoking images of her on her knees, calling him that while her mouth worked wonders.

He crossed the room in maybe eight long strides, his loafers thudding softly against the tiles, closing the distance until he towered over her. She didn't retreat, didn't flinch; instead, she tilted her chin up defiantly, her breath coming in soft, anticipatory puffs that he could feel against his chest. When he stopped in front of her, the top of her head barely cleared his sternum, her petite form dwarfed by his bulk. Up close, he could smell the faint citrus of her shampoo blooming from her hair, intertwined with the warmer, more intimate scent of her skin after hours of working through the house. A subtle mix of clean sweat and feminine arousal, heady and addictive, making his mouth water.

"You've been teasing me all week," he said quietly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the air between them, his hands itching to touch. "You've been dripping since noon," he murmured, voice so low it vibrated against her skin. "I can smell it from here."

A tremor ran through her. She pressed her thighs together instinctively, but the motion only made the slickness between them more pronounced; she could feel her own arousal coating the insides of her folds, making every tiny shift of her hips a slick glide.

He still didn't touch her. He simply stood behind her, letting her feel his size, his heat, the slow, heavy throb of his cock against her lower back. Then he lifted one hand slowly, deliberately and brushed the very tips of his fingers along the newly exposed line of her spine. Gooseflesh erupted in their wake. He traced the zipper's path downward until the dress gaped open at her waist, revealing the elegant dip of her lower back, the twin dimples above her ass.

He didn't speak at first. He simply lifted his hand slowly, as though giving her every chance to pull away—and brushed the backs of his knuckles down the side of her face. The touch was feather light. Reverent. Terrified.

"You're going to ruin me," he whispered.

The words were so quiet she almost missed them.

Layla's breath caught. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she was sure he could see it through the thin cotton of her dress. "Then let me," she answered, voice shaking.

That was the permission he'd been waiting for and dreading.

His control snapped like dry kindling.

He hauled her against him with bruising force, one arm banding around her waist, the other hand fisting in her hair to tilt her head back. His mouth crashed down on hers. Not a kiss so much as a claiming. Teeth clashed. Tongues tangled. He tasted like coffee and desperation and the metallic edge of restraint finally breaking. She moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing at his shirt, trying to get closer, trying to crawl inside his skin. He walked her backward until her spine met the bookshelves. Volumes rattled. A heavy tome thumped to the floor. Neither of them cared. He tore his mouth from hers only long enough to rasp against her lips, "Tell me to stop."

Her nails dug into his shoulders. "Don't you dare."

Something raw and anguished flickered across his face. Then vanished as he kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth, the taste of her surrender.

He pulled back just far enough to look at her, really look. Her lips were swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with unshed tears and something dangerously close to love.

"I've wanted this since the first day you walked through that door," he said, voice wrecked. "Every time you said ‘Mr. Calder' I wanted to bend you over the nearest surface and prove I'm not a gentleman."

Her laugh was shaky, breathless. "Then prove it."

He did.

He spun her around so fast she gasped, pressed her front to the bookshelves, her palms slapping against the leather spines for balance. His hands were everywhere. Yanking the zipper of her dress the rest of the way down, shoving the fabric to her waist, palming her breasts roughly before sliding down to hook the soaked cotton bikini panties and tear it aside. The ripping sound made her whimper. He kicked her feet wider apart.

Then he dropped to his knees behind her.

The first touch of his tongue was a shock. It was hot, wet, unhesitating. He licked a long, slow stripe from her entrance to the sensitive pucker above, tasting every drop of her arousal, groaning like a man starving. She cried out, forehead pressing hard against a row of books, thighs trembling. He ate her like he was trying to imprint her flavor on his tongue forever.

Fingers dug into her hips, holding her still while his mouth worked on sucking her clit from behind, tongue plunging inside her, then retreating to circle the swollen bud with merciless precision. She was loud, too loud. Her broken sobs and pleas echoing off the high ceilings. Her knees buckled; he caught her, one arm banding around her waist to keep her upright while the other hand reached around to pinch and roll her nipples in time with the flick of his tongue.

When she came it was sudden and shattering. Her back arching, a primal wail tearing from her throat as her walls pulsed against nothing, wetness flooding his mouth, dripping down her thighs. He drank her through it, humming approval, prolonging every aftershock until she was shaking, quivering, tears streaking her cheeks.

He rose behind her, unbuckling his belt with shaking hands. The metallic clink sounded obscene in the quiet aftermath of her cries. He didn't turn her around.

He simply freed himself, he was thick, leaking, painfully hard and dragged the head through her drenched folds once, twice, coating himself in her release.

Then he leaned over her back, lips at her ear, voice gravel and ruin.

"Last chance."

She reached behind her, wrapped her fingers around his length, guided him to her entrance. "Fuck me like you mean it," she whispered.

He thrust in one brutal stroke.

They both cried out.

He didn't give her time to adjust. He fucked her hard, deep, relentless, each plunge driving the breath from her lungs, the shelves rattling with every impact. Books slid to the floor in soft thuds. His hand wrapped around her throat. not choking, just holding, feeling her pulse hammer against his palm while his other hand found her clit and rubbed merciless circles.

She came again almost immediately clenching so hard around him he groaned like he'd been punched. Her release soaked his balls, dripped onto the tiles below.

He didn't stop.

He pulled out only long enough to spin her around, lift her, pin her against the shelves with her legs wrapped around his waist. Then he drove back inside, deeper this time, hitting that spot that made her eyes roll back.

They kissed like they were drowning, messy, desperate, tasting salt and sweat and each other. His thrusts slowed but grew harder, more deliberate, grinding against her clit with every roll of his hips until she was sobbing his name like a prayer.

"Daniel... please... I can't... too much..."

"Come for me one more time," he growled against her mouth. "Come on my cock and I'll fill you so deep you'll feel me for days." The words tipped her over.

She shattered, her back bowing, nails raking bloody trails down his shoulders, a raw scream tearing from her throat as her walls milked him in violent spasms. Wetness gushed between them, soaking his slacks, the floor.

He followed with a guttural roar, burying himself to the hilt, pulsing hot and thick inside her, hips jerking through every wave until he was empty, trembling, spent.

They stayed like that, her pinned to the bookshelves, him still buried deep, foreheads pressed together, breaths rushing in and out like they'd run a marathon.

After long, shaking minutes he eased out slowly, watching his release leak from her swollen folds, dripping down her thighs in creamy rivulets. He cupped her face in both hands, gentler now, reverent, his thumbs brushing away the tears that still clung to her lashes. "Keep me here," she whispered.

He kissed her again, slow, tender, aching.

And for the first time all afternoon, the house felt like it could finally exhale.

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