Chapter Text
You don’t remember the exact moment you decided to burn every bridge behind you, only that you couldn’t stop digging once you’d seen the first crack in Shadow Company’s spotless façade. One sloppy transfer. One falsified manifest. Then another, and another. Until your walls at home were littered with scribbled notes and pinned-up documents that painted a picture no one wanted to see.
It wasn’t about ambition anymore, or even recognition. It was about the truth, the kind that ruins careers and topples the men who pretend to be untouchable.
And at the center of it all, there was him.
Phillip Graves.
Polished smile, southern drawl, every inch the golden boy of private military contracts. People believed him when he spoke, and that made him dangerous.
The problem was, the closer you got to exposing him, the more you realized that getting near Graves wasn’t just about risk, it was magnetic. He had a way of noticing you in a room full of people, of making your pulse betray you before he’d even said a word.
You knew this was reckless. You knew the line you were crossing wasn’t professional. But still, when the invitation came “Shadow Company welcomes you to see our operations firsthand” you said yes.
You told yourself it was only a tour. A chance to observe, to dig for cracks he didn’t mean to show. Nothing more.
The air smelled faintly of fuel and hot metal as you stepped onto the tarmac. The heat radiated up through the soles of your shoes, the roar of a departing chopper rattling your chest. Everything here was loud, efficient, precise. The kind of order you only get when men like Graves are pulling the strings.
“Ma’am.”
His voice carried before you saw him, that smooth southern drawl wrapping around the word like it was custom-made for you. When you turned, he was already walking toward you, sunglasses catching the harsh sun, smile sharp enough to be mistaken for charm.
Phillip Graves looked exactly like the press kits made him out to be. Polished, confident, untouchable. But standing this close, you could see what the photographs never showed. The weight in his gaze. The calculation. The way he made it clear, without saying a word, that you were in his world now.
“You made the trip all the way out here,” he said, extending a hand. His grip was firm, warm. “Hope you’ll find our little operation worth the ink you’ll burn on it.”
You smiled, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “That depends on how much you’re willing to let me see.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and for just a moment, the mask slipped, just enough to show he liked the challenge.
“Darlin’,” he drawled, stepping just close enough that you caught the faint scent of cologne beneath the jet fuel, “you’ll see exactly what I want you to.”
You raised a brow, notebook tucked against your side like a shield. “That almost sounds like a confession, Mr. Graves. Only showing me what you want me to… isn’t that the definition of bias?”
His grin widened, slow and unbothered, like you’d just told him a joke he intended to savor. “Well now, bias or not, I reckon it’s still my house you’re standin’ in. Can’t have you peekin’ behind every curtain. Bad for business.”
You pretended to jot something down, pen scratching the page just loud enough to needle him. “Bad for business,” you repeated. “That sounds like another headline.”
For a moment, his eyes flicked down to your hand, watching the movement of your pen with something sharper than amusement. Then he leaned in, close enough that the low rumble of his voice was just for you.
“Careful, darlin’,” he murmured, the drawl dropping into something darker. “You keep pokin’ at me like that, I might start wonderin’ whether you’re here for the story… or just to get a rise outta me.”
Heat crawled up your neck before you could stop it, and the smug curve of his smile told you he’d noticed.
You cleared your throat and started walking, forcing him to follow your pace. The pen hovered over your notebook as if you hadn’t just lost ground in whatever this game was. “Let’s talk about Shadow Company’s latest contracts,” you said, your voice clipped, businesslike. “There’s been a lot of noise about the deals in KorTac territory… critics calling it exploitation. Care to comment?”
Boots crunched on gravel behind you as Graves matched your stride with infuriating ease. “Critics,” he repeated, like the word itself amused him. “Darlin’, critics are just folks who ain’t got all the facts. Easy to throw stones when you’re standin’ outside the house.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “And you’re saying your house is spotless?”
His laugh was low, rich, the kind that seemed to roll straight into your bones. “Spotless? No, ma’am. Ain’t no house in this business without a little dust in the corners. But dirt don’t make the whole foundation rotten.”
You scribbled something down, ignoring the prickle at the back of your neck when his shadow overlapped yours. “Funny. Some would argue the foundation is the problem.”
He let that linger for a beat, then leaned just close enough that his arm brushed yours as you walked. “And you’d be one of those ‘some,’ wouldn’t you?”
You didn’t flinch, even with the heat of his arm brushing yours. “I’m not here to take sides, Mr. Graves. I’m here for the truth. Nothing more, nothing less.”
He hummed low in his throat, like he didn’t quite buy it. “Truth, huh? That’s a mighty noble pursuit.”
You nodded once, pen tapping against your notebook. “It’s the only pursuit that matters.”
Graves slowed his pace just enough that you had to glance over your shoulder at him, his sunglasses catching the sunlight. The smirk tugging at his mouth was dangerous, knowing. “Funny,” he drawled, “’cause I recall a little line you penned a while back. Lemme see if I can remember it right…”
He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “‘Shadow Company hides its greed behind a polished smile, and Phillip Graves is the mask that keeps the blood off their hands.’”
Your chest tightened. He’d read it. Of course he had.
“Now, darlin’,” he went on smoothly, stepping just close enough that his voice wrapped around you, “does that sound neutral to you?”
“Neutral doesn’t mean blind,” you shot back, meeting his gaze without flinching. “If I see blood on your hands, I’ll write about it. If I see polish, I’ll write that too. The line was fair.”
For a moment, the air between you tightened, stretched thin. His smirk didn’t fade, but there was a flash of something sharper beneath it, something that told you he liked the fight, even if it was aimed squarely at him.
“Feisty,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You ignored the heat threading through your chest and flipped to a clean page in your notebook. “Since you’ve clearly read my work, you know I don’t waste time with fluff. So let’s skip the PR pitch. Where exactly is Shadow Company sourcing its overseas contracts right now? And why are so many of them tied to regions with… let’s call it questionable stability?”
His laugh was soft, but it didn’t hold much humor. “Straight to the jugular. Knew you’d be trouble the second I saw your name on the manifest.”
His boots scuffed against the gravel as he angled himself so you had to look up at him when he answered. “We take contracts where there’s demand,” he said evenly, the practiced cadence of a man who’d repeated the line a hundred times. “If a region’s unstable, that’s exactly when they need folks like us keepin’ the peace. We provide order. Stability. Opportunity. All them pretty things that make the world sleep easier at night.”
He smiled then. Sharp, deliberate. “Now, does that sound questionable to you, darlin’, or just necessary?”
You blinked once. Twice. Pen still poised above your notebook. Then you jotted down a single line without breaking eye contact.
Unimpressed.
His smile twitched, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he tipped his head toward the hangar ahead, its steel doors yawning open to reveal rows of vehicles and crates stacked with military precision.
“C’mon,” he drawled, brushing past you just close enough that his arm grazed yours again. “Plenty more for you to see. Might even find somethin’ worth writin’ about, if you’re lucky.”
You fell into step beside him again, your expression schooled back into neutrality, though you could feel the heat of his presence at your shoulder as the tour moved deeper into Shadow Company’s heart.
The hangar swallowed you both, the heavy scent of oil and steel replacing the sharp tang of jet fuel outside. Rows of armored vehicles gleamed under fluorescent lights, their shadows long against the concrete floor. Men in fatigues moved with quiet efficiency, eyes flicking toward you before sliding quickly back to their work.
Graves spread a hand like he was presenting some grand exhibit. “State-of-the-art, every one of ‘em. Maintained down to the bolt. Folks like to say Shadow Company runs on money, but truth is, we run on precision. That’s why governments trust us.”
You let your gaze drift over the rows of machines, the neat stacks of crates stamped with serial numbers, the orderly choreography of soldiers who never once broke formation. It was too polished. Too curated. Like a stage set dressed just for you.
“Trust,” you repeated, pen scratching across the page. “Interesting choice of word, considering you’re under contract in regions where local governments have collapsed entirely.”
For a beat, he didn’t answer. Then his smile returned, smooth as glass. “Darlin’, when the house burns down, do you ask the fireman for his credentials, or do you thank him for puttin’ out the flames?”
You glanced up at him, unimpressed. “That depends. Is he charging the neighborhood three times the market rate for water?”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. He leaned in slightly, his voice pitched for you alone, a whisper against the buzz of the hangar. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I’m liable to think you enjoy pokin’ holes in me.”
The pen stilled in your hand. “I’m just doing my job.”
His gaze lingered, heavy and unblinking. “So am I.”
The words hung between you, thicker than the oily air of the hangar. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Graves tipped his head toward the far end of the building, his stride deliberate as he cut through the neat rows of machinery.
You followed, boots echoing across the concrete. The chatter of soldiers faded with each step, replaced by the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead. At the very back, half-hidden behind a wall of storage crates, waited a steel door. Graves punched in a code without looking back, and the lock disengaged with a hiss.
“Office,” he said simply, holding the door open with a gloved hand. The faintest smirk tugged at his mouth. “Figured you’d want someplace quiet to scribble all them notes without an audience starin’.”
You stepped past him into the space, less lavish than you’d expected. A wide desk, maps pinned to the walls, a coffee pot half-empty on a side table. The hum of an old ceiling fan stirred the air. Functional, not ornamental. Still, it smelled faintly of leather and his cologne, and that was enough to make your pulse jump.
You turned, notebook still in hand. “Quiet’s good,” you said, steadying your tone. “Because a setting like this…” Your eyes swept the closed door, the private shadows. “…almost demands more personal questions. If you’re fine with that.”
Graves leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. The fluorescent light cut a sharp line across his jaw, his smirk settling into something slower, more deliberate.
“Darlin’,” he drawled, “I reckon you can ask me whatever you please. Question is…” His eyes raked over you, steady and unashamed. “…are you ready for the answers?”
You didn’t hesitate. “Let’s start with the obvious, then. Your affair with a certain government official.” You flipped your notebook open, the scratch of the pen loud in the quiet room. “Convenient timing, considering how many lucrative contracts started rolling in afterward. How lucky for Shadow Company.”
For the first time, his smile actually faltered, not gone, just sharpened. Like a blade turned on its edge. He tilted his head slowly, studying you as though weighing whether you were fearless or just reckless.
“Well, ain’t that somethin’,” he murmured, pushing off the wall. His boots thudded against the concrete floor as he closed the distance between you by two, maybe three slow steps. “Most folks would ease their way into a question like that. But you…” His eyes raked over your face, deliberate, searching. “You just dive straight in.”
You held your ground, though your heart thumped traitorously against your ribs. “I deal in facts, Mr. Graves. And the fact is, you got contracts no one else did. People call that corruption. I call it a story.”
He stopped just in front of you, so close you could smell the leather of his gloves and the faint trace of coffee on his breath. His voice dropped low, a quiet rumble meant only for you.
“Now, darlin’, you can call it whatever you like. But let’s get one thing straight, Shadow Company earned every damn contract we’ve got. Politicians don’t keep me afloat. My results do. That woman…” his smirk twitched, dangerous now, “…was a distraction. Nothin’ more.”
You let the silence stretch just long enough for him to think he’d won it. Then you tilted your head, pen poised above the page.
“Interesting,” you said lightly, as though cataloguing evidence. “Because from what I’ve gathered, distraction seems to be a bit of a pattern with you.”
His brows ticked up, just barely.
You didn’t wait. “There was the aide in Brussels three years ago. The trade delegate in Singapore the year after that. And, of course, the defense consultant in D.C. You remember her, don’t you? Every time, contracts seemed to follow. Almost like clockwork.”
The smirk slid back into place, but there was an edge to it now, something sharp enough to cut. He chuckled low in his throat, pacing a slow half-circle around you like a predator deciding which angle to strike from.
“Well, well,” he drawled, voice thick with amusement. “You plannin’ to write me a biography, sugar, or just a hit piece?”
You tracked him with your eyes, steady, refusing to move. “Neither,” you said. “I’m planning to find out the real intention behind why you invited me here.” The corner of your mouth tugged upward, not quite a smile. “Because with your track record, Mr. Graves… a girl can’t help but wonder.”
His smirk stilled again, though only for a breath. Then he crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk.
“Well now,” he drawled, “ain’t you a suspicious little thing.” His gaze flicked over your face, deliberate, lingering, before settling back on your eyes. “Could be I just wanted you to see the operation with your own eyes. Let you write somethin’ shiny that makes us look good.”
He raised an eyebrow, his voice dropping low. “Or maybe… I wanted to see if the woman who writes with such bite had the same fire in person.”
“Oh my, Mr. Graves,” you murmured. “Sounds like you’re testing me, not giving me answers. And I thought this was supposed to be an interview, not an audition.”
For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of the ceiling fan overhead. Then he laughed. Quiet and rough around the edges. Not the polished PR smile he wore for the cameras, but something darker, something that felt like it was just for you.
“Hell,” he said, his smirk curving wider, “maybe it’s both.”
He straightened only enough to lean forward, his hand now resting against the desk beside your hip, where you stood next to him, caging you in without quite touching. The move was deliberate, dominant, but the gleam in his eye was pure challenge.
“So tell me,” he went on, voice silk over steel, “what’s the next question you’re so eager to burn me with? ’Cause I’m startin’ to think the one you really want to ask ain’t in that little notebook of yours.”
Your notebook felt heavier in your hand than it had any right to. You set it on the desk between you, deliberately slow, and looked up at him.
“Fine,” you said evenly. “Here’s one that isn’t in my notes.”
His brows lifted, but he didn’t move, his hand still braced against the desk near your hip.
“Why do you always mix business with pleasure, Mr. Graves? ”
He didn’t have a ready quip. The silence stretched, weighted, before he gave a short, humorless laugh. “You really don’t scare easy, do you?”
You met his gaze, steady. “That’s not an answer.”
The smirk returned then, slower, sharper, and far more dangerous. He leaned in until you could feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.
“Maybe the answer,” he murmured, “is that I just like seein’ how close I can get before someone breaks.”
Your pulse kicked hard, traitorous, but you held your ground. “And if they don’t?”
His eyes darkened at that, the teasing charm shading into something heavier. “Then maybe I’m the one who finally does.”
The air between you seemed to snap, tight as a drawn wire. His hand brushed closer to your hip, then just a little higher, hovering at the edge of touch. Testing. Waiting.
You laughed, the sound startling even in your own ears after so much coiled silence. It wasn’t forced, it slipped out sharp, genuine, right in his face.
“I’d actually pay to see that,” you said, tilting your head, your eyes dancing. “You breaking.”
For half a second, he went still. The smirk on his mouth froze, then curled into something darker, hungrier. The kind of smile a predator gives right before it sinks its teeth in.
“Darlin’,” he murmured, voice dropping low enough to vibrate in your chest, “careful what you wish for.”
The notebook was plucked from your hands in one smooth motion and set aside, while his free hand found your chin, tilting your face up until there was nowhere to look but straight into him.
The cologne, the faint grit of stubble, those deep blue eyes, the heavy heat of his presence pressing into your space… it all hit at once.
“’Cause if you’re payin’,” he drawled, his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw, “I aim to give you your money’s worth.”
Your breath caught, but your smile didn’t falter. “Then maybe you should prove it.”
That was all it took.
His mouth crashed onto yours, hot and unyielding, tasting of coffee, leather, and the arrogance you’d been circling since the moment you stepped off the plane. The kiss wasn’t gentle, wasn’t careful. It was the culmination of every sharp word you’d thrown at him, every challenge you hadn’t backed away from.
Your pulse thudded in your ears, a frantic rhythm that matched the rough press of his mouth. His gloved hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, anchoring you in place. He wasn’t asking. He was taking.
And God help you, you let him.
The desk dug into the back of your thighs as he pressed closer, now fully caging you in with his body. Heat rolled off him in waves, the scent of cologne and sweat and gun oil wrapping around you until it was dizzying. Your hands moved before your brain could catch up, one fisting in the fabric of his uniform shirt, the other bracing against the solid line of his chest.
You could feel the beat of his heart under your palm. Steady. Controlled. Infuriatingly calm, even now.
That, more than anything, made you bite his lower lip.
He groaned into your mouth, the sound low and guttural, vibrating through you. The next second, his gloves were gone, tossed carelessly aside. Bare hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in with enough force to make you gasp.
“That fire,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough, ragged now. “Knew it was there. Knew it.”
The words sparked through you like electricity, heat pooling low in your stomach. You wanted to push back, to tell him you weren’t some prize for him to win, but your body betrayed you. Your hips tilted forward against him, and the solid evidence of his arousal pressed hard into your thigh.
The sharp intake of his breath was all the warning you got before he lifted you, effortlessly, onto the desk. Papers scattered, a pen clattered to the floor, but you hardly noticed. All you could feel was the press of his body between your knees, the rough scrape of his belt buckle against you, the way his mouth devoured yours like he’d been starving for it.
Your senses blurred together. The faint metallic taste of blood where his teeth grazed your lip, the smell of oil and leather, the rasp of stubble against your skin as his mouth trailed down to your jaw, your throat. You tilted your head back, a sound you didn’t recognize slipping free, and his chuckle rumbled against your collarbone.
“Reckon that don’t sound too neutral, darlin’,” he whispered, hot against your skin.
You wanted to tell him to shut up, but your words tangled with the moan that escaped when his hand slid under your blouse, calloused fingers tracing the heated line of your waist. Every touch was rough, sure, unapologetic. He wasn’t worshipping you, he was claiming. And the worst part, the most dangerous part, was that every nerve in your body begged him not to stop.
Your own hands moved hungrily now, shoving his vest aside, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt, desperate for skin. You wanted to feel him, to drag your nails across the man who’d been nothing but polished edges and smooth lies until now.
When the first strip of bare skin met your palm, hot, taut muscle underlaid with scars, your breath caught. Real. Solid. Flesh and blood, not the untouchable mask he wore in public. That thought only drove you harder.
“Hell,” he hissed, his hips grinding against yours, rough enough to make your head spin. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You didn’t care. You pulled him down into another bruising kiss, your teeth clashing, your body arching into his like you could fuse yourself to him. And when his hand slid lower, fingers teasing at the edge of your waistband, your breath shattered in your chest.
This was reckless. This was dangerous. This was everything you swore you wouldn’t do.
And you wanted it anyway.
His hand hovered just beneath your waistband, fingers teasing but not giving. The anticipation was maddening and you found yourself rocking forward against him, wordlessly demanding more.
That earned you a sharp grin, teeth flashing against the hollow of your throat. “Knew you’d be trouble,” he muttered. Then his fingers slid beneath the fabric, rough calluses scraping sensitive skin as he cupped you through your underwear.
A gasp broke from your chest, your hand clutching at his shoulder for balance. He drank in the sound like it was oxygen, eyes burning when he looked at you again. “There she is,” he murmured. “All that fire, all that bite… and all it takes is one touch.”
You wanted to argue, to throw another line back in his face, but your breath hitched when his fingers pressed firmer, stroking you through the damp cotton. The friction, the heat, the sheer audacity of it sent your thoughts scattering.
“Say it,” he coaxed, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me you want it.”
Your jaw clenched, pride warring with the ache between your thighs. But when he slipped beneath the last barrier, the first slick glide of his fingers against bare skin tore the words free. “I want you,” you gasped.
His smirk was pure victory. “That’s my girl.”
Two fingers slid inside, stretching you, filling you, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit. Your head fell back, a low moan breaking past your lips as your hips bucked forward against him. The desk rattled beneath you, papers fluttering to the floor like white flags you had no intention of raising.
His breath caught at the sound, and then his mouth was on your throat again, teeth grazing skin as his fingers drove deeper. Each thrust was deliberate, curling just so, like he was mapping out every weakness you had.
“Goddamn,” he muttered against your pulse, voice rough with hunger. “So fucking tight around my fingers… can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”
The words alone nearly undid you. You clutched at his open shirt, nails digging through the fabric, dragging him closer even as your body writhed against his hand. Every press of his palm against your clit sent sparks racing low in your stomach, every curl of his fingers pulled a helpless sound from your lips.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. His pace quickened, the rhythm steady and merciless, the wet sound of his fingers working you open filling the small office. “Would you look at that,” he growled, watching your face as your eyes squeezed shut. “That look right there… sweet Jesus.”
Your thighs trembled against his hips, heat building fast, sharp, impossible to ignore. You bit your lip hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing how close you were, but then he angled his hand just right, and the shock of pleasure tore a ragged cry from you anyway.
“Yeah,” he rasped, his forehead pressing against yours, breath hot and uneven. “Don’t hold back on me. Wanna hear every damn sound you make.”
His fingers curled again, relentless, and your body arched off the desk. You were coming apart, balance slipping, every nerve strung tight. The slick slide of his fingers, the grind of his palm, the rough rasp of his voice in your ear. It was all too much.
“Phillip…” You choked on his name, the word breaking.
He bit back a groan at the sound, thrusting his fingers harder, faster, until you shattered around him. Pleasure ripped through you in sharp waves, thighs clamping down around his wrist as you moaned into his shoulder, trembling against him.
He didn’t stop right away. He worked you through it, dragging every aftershock from your body until you were gasping, clawing at his shirt, half-dizzy from the force of it. Only then did he slow, his fingers easing out, slick and glistening when he pulled them free.
Graves held them up between you, his smirk curling wicked. “Reckon you taste as good as you sound.”
Before you could form a protest, he brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low groan that made your skin flush hot all over again.
You just stared, breathless, thighs still quivering against the desk, as he sucked his fingers clean like it was the most natural thing in the world. His eyes stayed locked on yours the whole time, daring you to look away, daring you to deny how wet and undone you were because of him.
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. He chuckled darkly, leaning in close until the heat of him pressed into every inch of you again.
“Already wrecked, and I ain’t even started yet.” His voice was low, ragged, edged with hunger.
You swallowed hard, trying to summon back that sharp professionalism you’d clung to minutes ago, but it was gone. Burned away by the way he’d worked you open, by the ache that only seemed sharper now. You managed, “Don’t flatter yourself…”
But he cut you off with a kiss. Not the punishing clash from before, but slow, filthy, calculated. His tongue teased yours, tasting you, owning the sound you made when his hand slid down to grip your thigh and drag you further to the edge of the desk.
The scrape of his belt buckle against your bare skin snapped you back to the present. You fumbled for it, needing more, needing him, but he slapped your hand away with a growl.
“Patience, darlin’,” he rasped, tugging the leather free himself. “You’ll get every inch, don’t you worry.”
Your pulse thundered in your ears as he shoved his pants down just enough, his cock springing free, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip. He stroked himself once, twice, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room, and your breath caught at the sight.
He saw the way your eyes widened, the way your body leaned forward without you meaning to. His smirk sharpened. “Reckon you want this bad.”
You lifted your chin, fighting for control you didn’t have. “Prove me wrong.”
His laugh was rough, almost broken this time. “Hell, woman… you really are something else.”
Without another word, he lined himself up and pressed against you, just at your entrance. The blunt head nudged, stretched, teased, and your whole body clenched, desperate, trembling with need.
And then, with one hard thrust, he buried himself inside.
The breath tore out of your lungs, sharp and unsteady, your body straining to take the sudden fullness. The stretch was almost unbearable and your muscles clenched instinctively around him.
“Christ,” Graves groaned, his jaw tight as he held still inside you. “You’re squeezin’ me like a damn vice.”
You couldn’t answer. Words had deserted you, replaced by the frantic beat of your heart, the sharp burn giving way to the molten heat of being filled so completely. You felt every inch of him thick, hot, pulsing and it left you gasping.
He didn’t move right away. He stayed there, buried deep, his chest rising and falling against yours. His hand slid up your thigh, spreading you wider, his thumb circling lazy patterns on your skin as though he had all the time in the world.
“You feel that?” he rasped, voice gravel and smoke. “That’s mine now.”
Your breath hitched, heat flooding you, but before you could respond he drew back. Slow, agonizing, until only the blunt head of him remained inside. Then he slammed forward again, hard enough to rattle the desk against the wall.
A cry tore from your throat, your nails dragging down his back as your body jolted with the force of it. He found a rhythm then. Deliberate at first, measured, each thrust grinding deep, making you feel every inch. It wasn’t just fucking. It was claiming.
The sound of him filled the room. The slap of skin, the creak of the desk, the low, guttural curses spilling from his lips. Every sense was saturated: the sweat dampening your blouse, the sharp bite of wood under your palms, the musky heat of his body pressing yours down, owning every movement.
Your walls clenched around him, pulling him deeper, drawing out another ragged groan. “Fuck, darlin’… you’re gonna drive me insane.”
Your head fell back, lips parted, moans spilling out with every thrust. You tried to form words, some sharp retort to remind him you hadn’t lost the upper hand completely, but then his pelvis ground against your clit on the downstroke, and the thought disintegrated in a strangled cry.
He grinned at that, breathless, sweat dripping from his temple. “There she is,” he panted. “Soundin’ sweet just for me.”
The coil in your belly tightened again, sharper, faster this time. Every thrust wound you tighter, dragging you to the edge, until you were trembling, gripping at him desperately, begging without words.
He saw it. Felt it. His hand caught your chin, forcing your gaze to his. “Look at me when you come.”
The command snapped something inside you. Your body arched against him, mouth falling open, and the orgasm ripped through you blinding, raw, every nerve lit like fire. You cried out, clenching so tight around him he cursed again, faltered, then thrust harder, chasing his own release.
With a final groan, he buried himself deep, hips jerking as he spilled inside you. His body trembled against yours, breath hot and ragged in your ear, both of you collapsing against the desk in a tangle of sweat and heat and wrecked nerves.
He stayed inside you for a beat longer, both of you catching your breath, your chest pressed against his, the ceiling fan humming above. Then he finally pulled back, slow, and you gasped at the drag of it, the sudden emptiness.
Graves glanced down, his smirk lazy and wicked as he stroked himself once, slick with both of you. “Well, look at that,” he drawled, voice still rough with release. “Made one hell of a mess on me, darlin’.”
You blinked at him, breathless, still trying to steady yourself. “Complaining already?”
“Not complainin’,” he corrected, lips curling. “Just sayin’ if you’re gonna ruin my uniform like this, you’re gonna clean it up.” He took a step back so you got a better view of the mess covering him, the head flushed and glistening, hovering just inches away. “Be polite.”
The audacity of it made you laugh, though the sound came out shaky, wrecked. “You’re insufferable.”
“Mm.” His thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip, smearing a hint of yourself across it. “And you’re stallin’.”
The command in his tone, the smug glint in his eyes, you hated to admit it but it sent heat pooling low in your belly all over again, even as your pride bristled. You held his gaze, deliberately slow, as you dropped onto your knees, parting your lips and taking him into your mouth.
The groan he gave in response was pure, guttural satisfaction. His hand slid into your hair, not forcing, just anchoring, as he watched you. “There’s my girl. Knew you’d play nice eventually.”
The taste of yourself mixed with him coated your tongue, musky, salty, raw. Every sound he made as you licked and sucked him clean only wound you tighter, because beneath the smugness, there was hunger still, the edge of a man who could never quite get enough.
When you finally pulled back, lips wet, you met his eyes again with a sharp little smirk of your own. “Satisfied?”
Graves tucked himself back into his pants, still grinning like the devil. “Reckon that wasn’t in your notes.”
You stood up slowly, legs still shaky, grabbing your notebook with trembling hands. Your body hummed with the aftershocks of what just happened, but your mind it was already shifting back into focus, sharp and cold.
You snapped the notebook shut. “You’re right,” you said evenly, smoothing your hair, ignoring the ache between your thighs. “It wasn’t.”
His smirk widened, convinced he’d won something. “Good. Let’s keep it that way, huh? No need to put somethin’ so… personal on the record.”
You gave him a smile. Small, sharp and unreadable. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t waste ink on something that small.”
The flicker in his eyes was brief but there, and it gave you the satisfaction you needed. You slipped past him, your pen tucked neatly behind your ear, your voice steady again. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Graves.”
He let you walk to the door, his drawl following you like smoke. “Somethin’ tells me this ain’t the last time we’ll be seein’ each other.”
Maybe it wasn’t. But you already knew one thing for certain.
Later, in the quiet of your hotel room, you flipped through the messy scrawl in your notebook, every quote, every slip, every detail. You tapped the pen against your lip, smiled to yourself, and wrote the headline that would run the next morning:
“Shadow Company: Polished Lies, Dirty Hands — and the Man Who Can’t Keep Them Clean.”