Adrian Cross fucked with the precision of a man who never wasted a movement. Every stroke was deliberate, every pause calculated to draw her closer to the edge before he pulled back, leaving her gasping and empty. That afternoon, he had bent her over the arm of his leather sofa, her cheek pressed into the cool hide, her knees spread wide on the Persian rug, and taken her with a slow, relentless rhythm that had wrung three separate climaxes from her body before he finally allowed himself release. She had felt the hot pulse of him deep inside her, his seed flooding her as his fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave tender crescents, and then he had withdrawn, kissed the back of her neck, and told her to rest while he attended a conference call in the adjoining study.