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My fingers move in between my folds, as I find my clit and begin to rub faster against the hardened bud.

Pleasure gathers in slow waves, tightening through my core while my thighs tense beneath the sheets. I arch slightly into the mattress, letting myself imagine the weight of him on top of me, the strength in his hands as he spreads me open wide and slides inside of me. The way his cock would stretch my pussy walls, and the overwhelming sensation of finally having all of him instead of being left with only the promise of it.

That thought pushes me closer. My breathing turns uneven as I chase the building pressure, and the fantasy becomes less about the kiss and more about everything we stopped before doing. I imagine Ross losing the restraint he fought so hard to recover, and the thought of just how intense being with him might feel is enough to send another sharp pulse of pleasure through me.

I stop trying to slow it down. The climax builds quickly after that, tightening through my entire body until the pleasure finally breaks in a deep, trembling rush. My thighs draw together beneath the sheets, my back arches from the mattress, and a soft sound escapes me as the sensation rolls through me and leaves me breathless.

For a while, I don’t move. I can only lie there while the last shivers fade. The room is dark except for the muted glow beyond the curtains, and outside, the rain has started falling harder again.

I tell myself that wanting Ross this much doesn’t mean I have to do anything about it. The thought would be considerably more convincing if I hadn’t just come imagining what it would feel like to let him finish what we started.

Sleep finds me before I can come up with a better lie.

Chapter Six

Ross

For six days, I stay away from the library. It is the most rational decision available to me, which is precisely why I make it. I keep to the London office, take meetings that could easily have been handled remotely, and let Margaret and the collection team route anything relevant through email or staff. If Blaire needs something from my side of the project, someone else can deal with it.

The arrangement should make things easier. Instead, she occupies more of my mind than she did when I was seeing her every day.

By Wednesday afternoon, I am sitting through a conference call with my father, Richard Voss, and two executives from our Frankfurt office while someone walks us through projections for a European infrastructure fund. The numbers are familiar, the discussion straightforward, and I answer when I am asked.

Then, without warning, I remember Blaire against the library shelves. The image arrives with enough force that I lose the thread of the conversation for several seconds.

I remember the way her body fitted against mine, the heat of her through that dress, the soft sound she made when I pulled her closer. I remember exactly how her breasts pressed against my chest and the way her fingers tightened in my hair when I kissed her harder.

My body reacts before I can stop it. I shift slightly in my chair and force my attention back to the screen while the ache in my trousers becomes impossible to ignore.

This is fucking ridiculous.

“Ross?”

My father’s voice cuts through the room.

I look up. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

Charles studies me for a brief second before returning to the discussion.

“I asked whether you agree with Frankfurt’s revised structure.”

I glance down at the figures in front of me and answer immediately.

“Not as written. The exposure is too concentrated in the first three years. Extend the deployment schedule and cap the initial commitment.”

Richard nods.

“That was my concern as well.”

The meeting moves on. I do not let my concentration slip again.

When it ends, I return to my office and close the door behind me. The room is quiet, all glass, dark wood, and late-afternoon light spilling across the desk. I open the next report in the stack and make it through less than a page before my attention drifts again.

This time, the memory goes further. I picture Blaire beneath my hands without the interruption of restraint. I imagine sliding that fitted dress higher over her thighs, feeling the shape of her without fabric between us, finding out whether the sound she made when I pressed against her would turn into something louder if I gave her exactly what she was asking for.

My cock twitches hard against the front of my trousers. I lean back in the chair and drag a hand over my face.

“Jesus Christ.”