In the silence of the library, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and the sharp, lingering burn of Matthew's bourbon. Outside those doors, the world was white, sterile, and cold—the "Purity" of a family that lived in filth. Inside, Matt was unravelling.
He didn't just want her; he needed to consume her. He backed her against the edge of the massive mahogany desk, his hands coming up to frame her face before sliding down to grip her throat, not to hurt, but to anchor her. He kissed her with a staggering, desperate violence, his tongue demanding entry, tasting of whiskey and the dark adrenaline of the night.
"Matt," she gasped into his mouth, her hands frantically working at the buttons of his shirt, tearing them open until she could feel the heat radiating off his chest. "Not here, they'll—"
"I don't care," he growled against her skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of her neck. "Let them hear. Let them know you're mine."
He grabbed the hem of her white silk gown, the fabric bunched up in his fists as he hiked it over her hips. With a sweeping motion of his arm, he cleared the desk, sending a heavy crystal inkwell and a stack of grandfathered ledgers crashing to the floor. He hoisted her up, her legs immediately locking around his waist, pulling him flush against the center of her heat.
He didn't waste time with gentleness. He shoved his trousers down just enough, his fingers finding her already slick and aching for him. He guided himself to her entrance, pausing for only a heartbeat to look her in the eye. In the dim light, his gaze was predatory, stripped of the "logistics" mask—he was just a man starving for the only thing that felt real.
He entered her in one long, uncompromising thrust that bottomed out, a blunt force that made Cheska's head snap back, a choked cry escaping her as she gripped his shoulders. Her nails dug into his skin, drawing blood, but he didn't flinch. He began to move—heavy, rhythmic, and punishing.
The friction was agonizingly perfect. Every time he withdrew, he stayed long enough for her to whimper, before driving back in to claim the very back of her. Cheska's back arched off the cold wood of the desk, her breasts straining against the bodice of her dress, her breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches.
"Say it," he demanded, his voice a low, guttural rasp as he increased the pace, his sweat dripping onto her collarbone. "Tell me whose monster I am."
"Yours," she sobbed, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him down for another bruising kiss. "Only yours."
The pace became frantic, a blurring collision of skin and desperate sound. The desk creaked under the weight of their movement, a rhythmic thud against the library floor that felt like a heartbeat. He was hitting her deep, over and over, until the room felt like it was spinning. Cheska's internal muscles clamped around him, her climax building like a tidal wave.
When it hit, she went rigid, her toes curling as she cried out his name, the sound muffled by his shoulder. Matthew followed her seconds later, a low, animalistic groan vibrating through his chest as he buried himself as deep as possible, his hands bruising her thighs as he held her still for the release.
They stayed like that for a long time, chests heaving in the dark, the "Friends with Benefits" lie finally dead on the floor alongside the scattered ledgers. They weren't just fucking; they were forging a bond in the wreckage of a dynasty.