The air in the room was still thick with the scent of her arousal and the old paper of his books. Natasha lay on the desk, her limbs heavy, her skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat. The wood beneath her back felt solid, grounding her as the last tremors of her release faded into a deep, humming stillness. He stood over her, a shadow against the lamplight, his expression unreadable but his eyes still burning with a quiet, possessive fire.

He let her rest. He did not rush. He walked to the small side table where a crystal decanter of water sat beside a single glass. The sound of water pouring was the only noise, a cool, clean note in the heavy air. He returned to her side and held the glass to her lips. She drank, the water easing the rawness in her throat. When she finished, he set the glass down and looked at her, his gaze moving slowly over her naked body, taking in the curve of her hip, the dampness between her thighs, the soft rise and fall of her chest.