His text arrived at 12:17: We have Forty-five minutes.
I was already standing at the window when his car turned into the street. I'd spent the morning pretending to work, which is to say I'd read the same email four times and thought about nothing but the feeling of his hands on me, slipping under my satin robe.
I opened the door before he could knock.
His jacket was slung over one arm like he started getting undressed in the lift, and for a moment he just looked at me, at the robe and the bare legs beneath it, and the whole careful day seemed to fall off him.
"Hello Handsome," I said.
"Hello Baby," said Mike, dropping the jacket on the chair by the door.
The door slammed behind him. I was against it before I'd drawn a breath, his hands in my hair, his mouth hot and hungry on mine, and I felt the whole length of him pressing me into the wood. I'd meant to be playful. I'd had a plan, something about taking control. I forgot it completely.
"Forty-five minutes," I managed.
"Forty-one."
"Then stop talking."
He laughed, low and breathless, and untied the robe with one tug. It slid off my shoulders and pooled at my feet, and his eyes travelled over me with a kind of reverent greed that made my knees weak.
"You've been naked under that all morning."
"Since eleven."
"Christ."
His hands found my breasts, his thumbs dragging over my nipples until I gasped, and then his mouth followed, hot and wet, his teeth grazing just hard enough to make me arch off the door. I tore at his shirt buttons. One popped and skittered across the floorboards, and neither of us cared. I got his belt open, his trousers pushed down, and wrapped my hand around him. He was hard and heavy in my grip, and he swore into my neck as I stroked him.
"Bed," he said. "Now. Or I'm taking you right here."
"Here," I said.
He stared at me for a heartbeat, then lifted me clean off the floor. My legs wrapped around his waist, my back against the door, and the angle was perfect. I reached between us and guided him into me, and he pushed into me in one long, deep thrust that punched the breath out of both of us.
"Oh, God."
"Yes," I said. "Like that."
He fucked me against the door, hard and fast, no patience in it at all. Each thrust drove me up the wood, my heels digging into his back, his hands gripping my thighs so tightly I knew there'd be marks. The sounds were obscene, skin slapping skin, my cries, his ragged breathing, the door knocking in its frame. I clung to his shoulders and gave him everything, and when he slid a hand between us and found my clit, I came in seconds, violently, with a cry that must have carried to the neighbours.
He didn't stop. He carried me, still inside me, down the hall, and dropped me onto the bed with a bounce.
"Thirty-two minutes," he said, grinning, flushed, wild-eyed.
"Then you'd better make them count."
He pulled out and flipped me onto my stomach. I heard him kick off what was left of his trousers and shirt, and then his weight was over me, his mouth at my ear.
"Hands and knees."
I obeyed. He took me from behind, one hand knotted in my hair, the other gripping my hip, and the angle was so deep that I buried my face in the pillow and cried out into it. He slowed down just long enough to draw it out, long, deliberate strokes that had me begging, then sped up again until the headboard hammered the wall. When I came the second time, it came from somewhere low and deep and shattered me completely, my whole body shaking, my arms giving way.
He pulled out, and before he could turn me over again I put a hand flat on his chest and pushed him onto his back.
"My turn," I said.
He looked up at me, flushed and wrecked, his chest heaving, and the clock on the bedside table was suddenly the furthest thing from either of our minds. I straddled his hips and took him in my hand, slick with me and still impossibly hard, and I held him there against me and watched his face as I sank down.
Slowly. All the way.
His head went back into the pillow. His hands clamped around my hips, and a sound came out of him that I felt in my own bones.
"You feel incredible."
"Don't move," I said. "Let me."
I rode him the way I'd been thinking about all morning: slow, deep, grinding down until I'd taken every inch, then lifting almost off him just to drop back down and watch his control fray. His eyes tracked my breasts, my stomach, the place where we were joined. When I leaned forward and braced my hands on his chest, he lifted his hips to meet me, and we found a rhythm that was almost cruelly good.
He lasted. God, he lasted. I'd have called it patience if it hadn't looked so much like torture. Every time I felt him swell and shudder, he'd grit his teeth and tighten his grip on me and breathe through it, and I'd slow, and tease, and start again. I came on him once like that, quietly, my forehead against his, and he held me through it with a hoarse laugh and said, "Again," and I did.
Somewhere in the third time, I caught his face in my hands.
"Mike."
"Mm."
"We're not meant to." My voice had gone ragged.
He knew exactly what I meant. His hands went still on my hips, his eyes dark and searching, and I felt his whole body go taut beneath me. We had rules. We had good, sensible reasons for them. And I was sitting on top of him, wet and shaking and utterly unwilling to care about any of them.
"I know," he said, barely a breath.
"I know." I repeated. I rocked down on him, slow and deep, and he groaned. I bent to his ear.
"Come inside me."
He made a sound I'll never forget. His fingers dug into my hips and then he couldn't hold back any longer, and I didn't want him to. I ground down hard and fast, chasing it, and he thrust up to meet me. I felt it break through him, his whole body arching off the mattress, a long, ragged groan tearing out of his chest as he pulsed deep inside me, hot and endless. The thought of it, the forbidden, filthy thrill of it, tipped me over right behind him, and I clenched around him, crying his name against his mouth.

We lay there for a long time afterwards, my cheek on his chest, his hand tracing slow lines down my spine, neither of us speaking. I could feel him still inside me, the heat of him, and I didn't move.
"We really shouldn't have," Mike said eventually, though he sounded anything but sorry.
"No," I said. "We really shouldn't."
"That's what made it so good."
Eventually the clock won, as it always does. He showered quickly, and I listened to the water from the bed, flushed and deliciously sore, still lying where he'd left me, my thighs parted and slick with him. When he came back he was damp, a towel slung low on his hips, and he dressed slowly, reluctantly, while I watched.
He got as far as half-buttoning his shirt, then stopped. I saw him look at me, really look, and something dark and satisfied crossed his face.
He came back to the bed. He didn't say anything at first. He sat on the edge and let his hand drift down my stomach, over my hip, and between my thighs, and when his fingers found me, still wet and warm with what he'd left inside me, my breath caught and my hips lifted helplessly to meet him.
He held his hand there, firm and unhurried, spreading the warmth slowly against me as though he were claiming it all over again. His eyes never left mine.
"I want you thinking about me every time you move," he said.
I could barely breathe. "I will."
"Every time." He pressed once more, slow and deliberate, and I shuddered. Then he kissed me, soft and unhurried, and stood, and finished buttoning his shirt as though he hadn't just undone me all over again.
The door clicked shut behind him. I lay there smiling at the ceiling, and the first time I shifted against the sheets, I felt him again, and I thought about nothing else for the rest of the afternoon...