In here, none of that mattered as Matt kissed her belly, nuzzling his cheek against her roundness, her skin dimpling in as gravity favored her.

“God, I love your body. So beautiful,” he murmured. You don’t have to say that, she thought. Many men before him had, a ritual that felt so false, as if they were blurting out the opposite of what they were really thinking in an effort to assuage guilt. Sometimes she did say it, adding to the awkwardness, making her uncomfortable and draining the sensuality out of what had been—until that moment—a perfectly fine experience.

“Perfectly fine” now felt like a cheap imitation of what she had with Matt. He was breaking her, stripping down the Lydia who had needed so many layers of protection, all of these shields and walls and bushes of thorns to keep her from falling apart in the real world. Wanting someone like this had been part of her silly, over-analytical fantasy.

Having him in her bed seemed downright delusional.

The brush of his mouth against her mons made her hands tighten into fists, and then—oh, yes—the first sensation she'd held her breath to capture descended upon her, his tongue achingly accurate, as if it possessed its own echolocation system for creating blind, sensual satiety. If he stopped now—right this very instant—she would be devastated and beside herself, writhing in unrelinquished build-up that would require every sex toy in her arsenal, plus a few she'd have to invent from household objects of undetermined origin.

He wouldn't make her resort to that, though, and as surely as she knew that what would come next would make her brain and body explode in a cresting that would make tsunamis seem like kiddie-pool ripples, she also knew that this would be the first of many (a lifetime?) of such comings.

No goings.

Matt was here to stay.

One hand pressed into the skin above her pubic bone, pinning her in place, the tight, firm splay of his masculine hand against her feminine swell almost artistic as she studied it, mind unable to think words any longer. And then a fullness inside her wetness as he slid into her, fingers seeking the one spot in a woman that could drive her mad. She'd rather he fill her with what her mouth had just laved, but she could wait. Patience is a virtue.

Though Lydia was feeling anything but virtuous right now.

As his tongue teased and stroked, shifting her into higher levels of expansive pleasure, she responded with no inhibitions, moving her body and positioning herself to seek the best sensations they could create together. His warmth filled her and his body sought to make her climax, to fill her needs first as she writhed and moaned against his flesh, honing their sultry ministrations to a fine point of—

Oh! There it was. That moment when everything in her awareness shifted to something greater than her, the sound of her short breaths and the feel of his skin against hers the only reality her self could bear. And now her need for a long, slow, drawn-out stretch in bed was shooed away by the urgency of having him in her, filling her, hammering home what she wanted.

With one hand she reached for him, pulling on his shoulders and—regretfully—making him stop what he was doing. “I want more,” she gasped. He returned to what he was doing, her need coursing through her veins as if it worked to escape from her new goal, a contradiction of the flesh.

She slid up the bed, pulling back. “No,” she laughed, the sound so full-throated she felt like a ’40s film noir star. “I want all of you.”

Standing on his knees, she gasped as his entire body was stretched out before her, so handsome and virile, all man before her, cobra-backed and muscled with a core that rippled. His rod stood at attention, ready for what came—and what came would be both of them. Soon.

“I have a condom in my wallet,” he whispered.

“We used it,” she reminded him, reaching back for her bedside table drawer. The heat of his body covered hers as she twisted back. Kisses peppered the side of her breast, her ribcage, stopping at her hip, his hands groping as if she weren't on display willingly, as if he had to take what he could with his palms and memorize her for some unspoken reason. His grip felt too intense, almost violent, and it rattled her for one reeling moment, suspending her between heightened want and a tinge of fear.

And then—one perfect kiss. Whatever possessed his hands was void in his lips, which were so tender tears threatened the back of her throat, his searching, gentle lips and tongue telling how much he needed and wanted her. As she fingered the foil packet and inexpertly attended to the requisite matters, rolling the condom over him while letting the kiss wash over her, two Lydias joined as one deep inside her, the fantastical daydreamer integrating with the hard-edged feminist. Couldn't she be both in one human form?

Couldn't Matt make love to all the Lydias at once?

Damn if she wouldn't let him try. As ready as she, his kiss changed, mouth pulled back, face grave and serious, studying her. The sense that there was so much more beneath his surface, under the tight veins that bulged in his forearms as he suspended himself over her, in the pecs that rolled so perfectly over his ribs and breastbone, in the skin tone that was a little too sun-kissed for a cubicle dweller—that all made her want him so deep inside her that she could feel the vibration of his secrets.

Spreading her legs, she lifted up and wrapped herself around his hips, his entrance into her a slow, gentle journey that picked up pace as he delved within, then pulled out, her hair spilling behind her on the pillow, his hands brushing against her waist. Matt's thick, bugling thighs nudged against her ass as she wriggled and shifted for more contact, the drive of his body spearing her so fluidly and sultrily she wanted this to last forever. Her breasts were crushed under his chest as he leaned forward to kiss her neck, their heat making a thin layer of sweat break out on both, her arms around his shoulders, fingers beginning to claw for purchase as the wave within combined what felt like 147 different small ripples and pushed into a giant tidal wave, the sensation roaring up at once out of what seemed like a smaller, contented build toward climax.

Breath hitching, she cried out, “Oh, Matt, I’m—”

“Go on,” he murmured, knowing what she meant, his thrusts increasing in speed and force—and that was exactly what her body needed. Fingernails raking his back, throat gasping and spasming for something—anything—big enough to let out the release of what this joining created, she felt every vein pop, every artery rush, all pores and skin alive and floating while energized with electricity and musk and his body hammering into hers, bringing her so much pleasure she couldn't contain it.

His neck tightened and she ran her hands along his collarbone as he rode her, his own orgasm right there, catching up to her within seconds, the two melding into each other with a force and ferocity she’d never experienced before. How Matt could extract and infuse at the same time was bewilderingly delightful, their communion blending atoms and juices and nerve endings and kisses to make something so new and yet so old it had no time stamp. Sweat poured down her hairline now and her hands slid along his slick chest, hungry for the touch of him against her palm as little waves lapped against her clenched walls, holding him in as his own climax was milked out of him, leaving them both sated, spent, and panting.

The sheet beneath her, now soaked, was a hot chill against her skin, a contradiction that fed so many other mutually exclusive parts of this moment. She wasn’t supposed to sleep with her boss. Or with a man she barely knew. Lydia rarely brought men home. So many of her own rules violated explicitly—by her.

Sometimes breaking the rules meant achieving a higher good.

Thank God she hadn't maliciously obeyed her inner voice.

Hips tilted up, Matt prone against her torso, she wiggled just enough to take his weight off her ribs, stoked and sated by what had just transpired. He moved just enough and then rolled off her, snuggling against her side. They were still on top of the covers and she moved in a contorted fashion to pull the comforter and top sheet out enough to wiggle under it, Matt following her lead.

Exhaustion made her eyelids droop. No! Not yet! She wanted more. Sleep, though, had other ideas, and as she nestled herself against his tight wall of muscle, she heard him sigh her name, as if he never expected to say it again.

The sound followed her into a deep slumber, the peaceful rest of a woman who broke her life’s rules and found that they'd never really applied in the first place.

Purring. Her breath sounded like a cat in a warm sunbeam, content and self-contained, assured it was in the one spot in the world where it belonged. Curled up in his arms, Lydia was exotic and innocent, worldly and naïve, the very end of each side of all the spectrums of loveliness and intrigue Mike could imagine. All combined in the one woman in the entire world he most wanted.

And could never have.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had to tell her. Why hadn’t he told her? Maybe the camera hadn’t actually been on. His mind raced in two thousand directions.

What if the taping hadn’t been in place?

What if they were in too much darkness and nothing was on camera?

What if he didn’t have to tell her?

What if—

Real life crashed down on him. Peeling Lydia off him, regretfully, he stood and bent down to retrieve his phone from the pants pocket. He'd enjoyed the reprieve from his collapsing life, but it was time to assess the damage. A small door to the left led to a bathroom, and as he turned on the phone he dispensed with the condom and washed his hands.

Attending to his phone, he found seven texts. Zooming in on the one from Jonah Moore, he read:

8 a.m. Your office. Be there.

And then:

I mean it. Tape’s being held back until 8 a.m., but then all bets are off.

Whew! Thank God. Sagging against the door frame, he stared at himself in the mirror, bright green eyes pained with horror and the agony of knowing that he—and he alone—had been the agent of his own destruction. Watching her sleep from across the room, he nearly rammed a fistful of anger, regret, and aching sorrow into the bathroom wall. What in the hell had he just done?

Telling her the second he realized the cameras were on—and Jonah’s texts knocked away any magical thinking that they hadn't been—would have been the smart thing to have done, but it was too late now. He couldn’t believe he’d lost his senses like that. Passion never overtook linear thought—never! Yet Lydia was the one woman capable of making his entire life unravel in one impassioned moan, one stroke of skin against flushed curves, one gasped promise of hope and more.

More. There would be no more. Unless he told her right now and she simply forgave him.

Impossible.

If the roles were reversed he couldn’t forgive her, so imagining the impossible seemed futile, childlike, the complete opposite of rational.

Like that moment in the office as she writhed above him, lashing against him in a dance of release.

Wake her up! Tell her! His conscience battered against him from the inside, striking hard with whatever weapons it could—guilt the primary explosive.

And yet…what good would it do? He could tell her and be thrown out, spat on, screamed at and hated.

Or…maybe he could re-establish some of his Michael Bournham control and actually help get her out of this mess.