Anthony’s shock at my non-virgin status morphs into something sharper—a grin that’s all Manhattan privilege and an unexpected game.

“So that’s how it is,” he says, pulling a condom from his wallet with the flourish of a Vegas magician. “Always prepared. Always safe.”

The audacity is almost charming. I can’t help but laugh. “Such a good feminist.”

His eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “That’s… definitely a first. Usually girls just call me an asshole.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re that too,” I say, surprised by the sudden honesty between us. “Let me guess—the seven sisters taught you about consent and lubrication?”

“Among other things.” He steps closer, cologne mixing with anticipation. “So what exactly does the perfect Wallace daughter want?”

My lips brush his ear, words flowing like honey laced with rat poison.

I tell him exactly what I want—against the desk, bent over centuries of first editions, making my father’s sanctuary our personal playground. Each whispered detail makes Anthony’s breathing rougher, his grip tighter.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re nothing like—”

“Like what you expected?” I bite his earlobe. “Poor baby. Want to back out?”

His answer is a shove—my spine slams into a wall of leather-bound Shakespeare hard enough to rattle my teeth. Before I can curse him for it, his mouth crashes into mine, all heat and hunger and ownership.

He kisses like he’s claiming a prize, like his mouth is a brand, and mine is his newest acquisition.

I respond instantly—because bodies are liars, traitors, slaves to sensation—and mine has been vibrating with unsatisfied need since Caleb left me stranded and aching in that goddamn wine cellar.

Anthony’s hands are everywhere. Bold. Skilled. Unapologetic. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t ask.

He finds every clasp, every zipper, with the confidence of a man who’s undressed more women than he can remember, and doesn’t care to. He tugs my dress down and my bra off like they’re obstacles between him and a goal.

I get his belt open—leather sliding free with a dark hiss that echoes against priceless first editions. My pulse is in my throat.

“You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this,” he groans against my neck, licking and biting just enough to mark me.

“Since when?” I gasp, even as my fingers unbutton his pants.

“Since the gallery,” he growls. “Since I realized you weren’t some boring virgin bride.”

He lifts me effortlessly, slamming me down on the desk. Rare manuscripts scatter. I don’t care. Let them burn.

“I hate boring,” he adds.

“Lucky me,” I sneer—but then he’s rolling on a condom, fast and practiced, giving me just a second to register the crinkle of foil and the soft hiss of latex before he’s there, pushing inside me, thick and hot and so fucking present that the words vanish from my tongue.

He thrusts deep with a guttural sound, both hands gripping my ass to drag me flush against him. The pressure. The stretch.

The burn of intrusion—it’s all so much, but exactly what I need. My head falls back with a gasp as he starts to move.

He pulls out slowly, then drives back in hard enough to make the desk skid a few inches on the polished floor.

“You love this,” he growls, one hand curling around my throat—not choking, just holding me in place, claiming every inch. “Getting fucked where daddy keeps his speeches? That perfect daughter image just shattered, huh?”

I moan, half in protest, half in pleasure. I should hate him for this. I should hate myself for letting him.

Instead, I meet him thrust for thrust, nails raking down his back, every sharp snap of his hips pushing me closer to the edge.

He fucks like it’s a workout. Hard. Fast. Efficient. Deep enough to make me grunt as he buries himself to the hilt, then slams in again with a rhythm designed to perform, not connect.

Every thrust punches a gasp from my chest, my back arching against the desk as my heels dig into his lower back.

He’s paying attention, though. He rubs tight, ruthless circles over my clit with his thumb, chasing my orgasm. I come—sharp, breathless, sudden—because biology doesn’t care about feelings. Just friction.

“Fuck, Mikaela,” he groans, driving into me faster. “You feel so—fuck—tight.”

I dig my nails into his back hard enough to make him hiss. It’s not love. It’s not romance. It’s war.

I want bruises. I want scratches. I want something I can point to in the mirror tomorrow and say: See? You’re not made of glass.

He loses rhythm when I lean up, biting his earlobe, whispering filthy orders I learned from porn and pain and a desperate need to feel anything but empty.

His cock twitches inside me when I call him a bad boy, and he fucks me harder, rougher, until I’m half-folded over the desk, ass pressed down against worn wood.

The bookshelf rocks with each thrust. A lamp crashes to the floor. My moans echo against mahogany and shame.

When he comes, it’s loud. Shameless. He buries himself deep and stills, groaning into my neck, hands gripping my hips like he wants to bruise me into memory.

Afterward, we move like strangers. Fast. Mechanical. He straightens his tie. I slide my panties back up, snap my bra into place.

He looks smug, chest rising with post-fuck pride. “That was—”

“Exactly what it was,” I cut in, smoothing my hair, my voice like glass.

The truth sits heavy: I like sex. Like being wanted. Like the power of making men lose their minds. But Anthony himself? He’s just expensive equipment—useful, functional, ultimately replaceable.

What does that make me? I’m not sure I want to know.

“We should get back,” I say, checking my lipstick in a compact mirror. “Dessert’s probably served.”

He catches my wrist. “This changes things between us.”

I pause, slowly lowering the compact. The question is in my eyes before I speak.

“Does it?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper, more challenge than curiosity.

His gaze searches mine, intense and unreadable, like he’s weighing something fragile in his hands.

Outside, the faint hum of conversation reminds us the world is still turning.

But for one breathless moment, everything narrows to this: his hand on my wrist, my heart in freefall, and the unspoken truth hanging between us like a storm cloud on the edge of breaking.

And then, I pull away—softly, deliberately.

“We should go,” I murmur, lips curving into something unreadable. “Dessert’s waiting.”

I don’t look back as I open the door.