Below Zero (The STEMinist Novellas #3) by Ali Hazelwood

            “When I saw you, I—” I suck on the skin of his throat, and he stutters. “I thought you were a little too beautiful,” he finishes, breathless. His hands are traveling under my shirt, up my spine, cautiously tracing the edges of my bra. He smells magnificent, clean and serious and warm.

            “Too beautiful for what?”

            “For everything. Too beautiful to look at, even.” His grip on my waist tightens. “Hannah, you—”

            I am grinding my groin against his. Which is probably the reason we both sound like we’re running a marathon. And in my defense, I really only meant for this to be a kiss, but yeah. No. I’m not stopping, and judging from the way his fingers dip into the back of my shorts to cup my ass cheek and press me tighter into his hard cock, he’s not planning to, either.

            “Does anyone else use this office?” I ask. I’m not shy, but this is . . . good. No-interruptions-please good. I-don’t-want-to-wait-till-we-get-home good. I’m-going-to-come-in-about-two-minutes good.

            He shakes his head, and I could cry of happiness, but I don’t have time. It’s like we were playing before, and now we’re in earnest. We’re barely kissing, uncoordinated, unfocused, just grinding against each other, and I chase the feeling of his body against mine, the high of being so close, his erection between my legs as we both make hushed, grunting, obscene noises, as we both try to get closer, to get more contact, skin, heat, friction, friction, friction, I need more friction—

            “Shit.” I cannot get enough. It’s not a good position, and I hate this stupid chair, and this is driving me insane. I let out a loud, infuriated groan and sink my teeth deep into his neck, like I am made of heat and frustration, and—

            Somehow, Ian knows exactly what I need. Because he stands from the cursed chair with a muted, “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” He takes me right with him and does something that could technically qualify as destroying NASA property to make enough room for us. A moment later I’m sitting on the desk, and all of a sudden we can both move like we want to. He opens my legs with his palms and slots his own right between them, and—

            Finally. The friction is—this is precisely what I asked for, precisely what I needed—

            “Yes,” I breathe out.

            “Yeah?” I don’t even need to move my hips. His hand slides down to grip my ass, and he somehow knows exactly how to angle me, how the hem of my shorts can brush against my clit. “Like this?” I feel his cock iron-hard on my hip and I make mewling, embarrassing, pleading sounds into the hollow of his throat, murmuring incomprehensibly about how good this is, how grateful I am, how I’m going to do the same for him when we finally fuck, how I’m going to do whatever he wants—

            “Stop,” he pants into my mouth, urgent, a little desperate. “You need to be quiet, or I’m going to—I just want to—”

            I laugh against his cheek, reedy, hushed. My thighs are starting to shake. There is a liquid, pressing heat swelling in my abdomen. “Want to—ah—want to what?”

            “I just want to make you come.”

            It sends me right over the edge. Into something that’s nothing like my usual, run-of-the-mill orgasm. Those tend to start like small fractures and then slowly, gradually deepen into something lovely and relaxing. Those are fun, good fun, but this . . . This pleasure is sudden and violent. It splinters into me like a wonderful, terrible explosion, new and frightening and fantastic, and it goes on and on, as though every heart-stopping, delicious second of it is being squeezed out of me. I screw my eyes shut, clutch Ian’s shoulders, and whimper into his throat, listening to the hushed “Fuck. Fuck,” he mouths into my collarbone. I was so sure I knew what my body was capable of, but this feels somewhere well beyond it.

            And somehow, on top of knowing exactly how to get me there, Ian also knows when to stop. The very moment it all becomes unbearable, his arms tighten around me, and his thigh becomes a solid, still weight between mine. I twine my arms around his neck, hide my face in his throat, and wait for my body to recover.

            “Well,” I say. My voice is raspier than I ever remember hearing it. There’s a wireless keyboard on the floor, cables dangling by my thigh, and if I move even half an inch back, I’ll destroy one, maybe two monitors. “Well,” I repeat. I let out a peal of winded laughter against his skin.

            “You okay?” he asks, pulling back to meet my eyes. His hands are trembling slightly against my back. Because, I assume, I came. And he didn’t. Which is very unfair. I just had a life-defining orgasm and can’t really remember my own name, but even in this state I can grasp the injustice of it all.