“Again.”

“Sir, we have to get back—”

“Did I say you could speak?”

My palm meets her ass in a deeply rewarding crack. Her low moan is the sweetest music. Poetry lives in the bloom of red, the way she wiggles unconsciously, hips jerking up for more. She doesn’t have much leeway, roped face down and spread-eagle to my desk. But that doesn’t stop her from trying. Beautiful woman.

I stroke myself from base to tip, prolonging my agony and hers, then step between her spread legs to tease her with penetration. She mewls, pushing back despite the pinching of the rope on her wrists. Panting with pain and pleasure. Needing what I can give her. Soaking my tip and the edge of the desk.

“Please, sir.”

Hot satisfaction pulses down my spine, making my balls throb with urgency. “Again,” I growl as I push an inch inside. I want nothing more than to drive inside her, thrust into her body. Own her pleasure, her pain, her heart and soul. Just as she owns all of me.

But even sweeter?

Making her wait for it.

Bending over her, I use both hands to stroke her crown, then toss her thick hair to one side. My fingers claim her neck, her shoulders, her arms with firm, possessive sweeps. I press a kiss to the back of her neck, licking a path down her spine. I tease her tight rim with my thumb until she’s poised on the edge, then reach beneath her and pinch her clit. And when she’s gone—trembling, soaring—I thrust inside.

She explodes, pulling me into her storm, her waves breaking fast and furious on my cock. Ah, fuck. If I didn’t have the patience of a saint, I’d come from the sheer wonder of her submission. Her absolute trust. The unequaled gift of her transparency.

She is my redemption.

A fist pounds on my office door, followed by a shout. “You’re missing my fecking wedding shower!”

London snort-laughs, which feels… interesting. Ignoring the irritating Irishman, I swirl my hips lazily, relishing in her answering gasp. My eyes lift to the wall over the desk, where a series of tasteful black-and-white nudes hang. Nathan was the artist, but the ropes on her body? Mine. The stripes on her shoulders? Mine. The soft, loving curl of her lips?

All fucking mine.

Liam kicks the door. “Come on. We’re about to open presents!”

“He’s so whipped,” whispers London.

I smack her ass, then smooth the sting. She trembles, laughing silently. I grunt at the resulting, vice-like effect and speed up my strokes.

“Unless you want to be whipped, kitten, you’ll tell the happy groom we’ll be right out.”

I punctuate my words with hard thrusts. She whimpers, her back flushing with humiliation and helpless desire. Anchoring her hips with my hands, I increase my pace to punishing.

“We’re—sorry—Be—right—there!”

“Assholes!” yells Liam. But he’s laughing as he walks away.

When I’m sure he’s gone, I grab London’s hair and pull her toward me as far as the ropes allow. She chants my name as my thrusts become vicious. Not until her walls seize around me again, until I hear her sweet cry of release, do I allow my orgasm to overtake me.

Wrecked and replete, I collapse onto her back. My lips find her neck and I nip lightly at the salty, damp skin.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re very welcome. Thank you.”

She sighs happily, fingers wiggling above her head where her wrists are tied together. The diamond on her ring finger glitters. The same diamond she wore around her neck for years—through her healing and mine, through testifying at Reznikov’s trial, through the long months in which she wrote her true-crime novel. Then, through the insanity of her success afterward, and through our joint-venture founding Road to Hope, a nonprofit to help law enforcement rescue and rehabilitate victims of sex-trafficking.

She’s more than I ever dreamed of. More than I thought I deserved.

“I love you,” I whisper.

“I know.”

Smug kitten.

I pinch her hip. She laughs.