"Tell her you'll be a minute," Leo whispered, his voice a hoarse, ragged purr. "You have to clean up my fresh coat first."
Damon stared down at him. The boy was lying on the polished mahogany of the conference table, his navy trousers bunched around his knees, his chest and stomach slick with the violent evidence of their encounter. The sheer audacity of the demand, issued while the intercom was still an open, buzzing threat, was staggering.
Damon didn't argue. He couldn't. His own body was still humming with the aftershocks of a climax so intense it had temporarily erased the existence of the multi-billion dollar company outside the glass.
He stepped back, his legs feeling like lead. He grabbed a handful of tissues from the heavy silver box on his desk, his hands shaking so violently he nearly knocked it over.
