Matt: Mike sent me home. Said I wasn’t cooperating or some shit.

Little Bird: Bad boy.

Matt: Mm, exactly. Are your office doors shut?

Little Bird: Yes …

Matt: Touch your breasts for me. Just a little.

Little Bird: Matt …

Matt: Are you wet?

Little Bird: I am now.

Matt: And your pussy. Slip a finger into it. For me …

Little Bird: God, Matt. Want you …

Matt: I could drive over.

Little Bird: No! Not at work.

Matt: In my car then. Don’t you want me in you? And my cum.

Little Bird: Matt. Jesus.

Matt: I want to put it in you. Make you take it. Come in you.

Several minutes passed. I gripped my dick through my slacks and sighed. All that skeevy talk in Mike’s office had done a number on me.

And Hannah … lately, she was more adorable than ever. When she cried over the damn bridal magazines, I wanted to drag her into the nearest bathroom and have my way with her. What gave? I couldn’t keep my hands off her.

At last, my cell buzzed.

Get over here Matt.

I grinned and slid off the couch. “That’s my girl,” I murmured.

I parked a block from the agency, which was desolate that day. The slap of my sandals echoed around the lobby. At the top of the stairs, I tousled my hair and checked my reflection in a glass case.

Golden boy, I thought spontaneously. What had I ever done to earn that nickname? Behind my pretty face was a consummate jerk.

Hannah leapt from her chair when I breezed into the office.

God damn, she looked good. She wore her hair in a high, messy bun. Her blouse hung open enough to give me a view of her cleavage. She pushed her glasses up her nose and shot a look at Pam’s office door.

“Matt!” she hissed. “What happened to … the car?”

I lifted a finger to my lips. Silence. I locked the door behind me, then locked the door between Pam and Hannah’s offices. My erection strained against my jeans. I slid smoothly into Hannah’s chair and pulled her onto my lap.

Mm—there.

I exhaled against the back of her neck. I gripped her hips and moved her bottom over my lap, letting her feel my hardness. She shivered.

As I hiked up her skirt, her hands fumbled between us, undoing my fly and freeing my cock. I shifted her thong and she sat, impaling herself. I inhaled swiftly. “Hannah,” I gasped.

She reached back at an ungainly angle and covered my mouth with her palm. Fuck, yes. This forced silence would drive me mad.

She bounced on my lap—I bucked to meet her motions—and when she gave a reedy moan, I sealed my hand across her lips. My free hand traveled her body, cupping her breasts through her bra and rubbing her clit.

I began to yank her down onto my cock, forcing a fast tempo.

Pushing her over the edge.

She came moments before I did, her hand braced against the desk, our bodies pinned and shuddering together. Ah, the things I wanted to say to her …

Her hand fell, streaking sweat and saliva over my jaw. I wiped my cheek on my shoulder and whispered in her ear, “You have the tightest pussy I’ve ever fucked, Hannah Catalano.”

We adjusted our clothes hastily.

She perched on the desk opposite me. A beautiful flush gilded her cheeks. Her chest surged with hungry breaths; her eyes glittered with excitement.

“You look very pleased with yourself, Mr. Sky.” She grinned.

“Oh, I am.” I chuckled and stroked her leg.

Absently, I scanned her desk. A magazine lay atop a stack of manuscripts, and when I reached for it, Hannah snatched it.

I recognized the cover immediately. The Knot. I laughed.

“Babe, are you playing on the job?”

“No, I…” Her voice hitched and she glared at me. Fucking hell, was she trying to be cute, or was my Hannah addiction in overdrive?

Sticky notes protruded from the magazine.

I smiled—encouragingly, I hoped—and tilted my head. “Show me.”

“No, just…” She played with the magazine. “I’m not, like, planning. I…”

“Then start planning.” I cupped her cheek. Her eyes widened.

“The—the wedding?”

“Why not? God knows I’m not going to plan it. Have you got some little-bird ideas?” I hauled her back onto my lap. Her flimsy office chair swayed. She swiveled sideways and plopped the magazine on her thighs.

“You make me feel like a little girl,” she whispered.

I frowned. “I do?”

She touched my lips. “In a good way, Matt.” She squinted at the magazine—a nervous tic of hers—and flipped it open to a page displaying “do-it-yourself string accents and lanterns.” She pointed to a nighttime photo of a large, sprawling oak with dozens of mason jars hanging from its branches, tea lights shining in the glass.

I kissed her shoulder.

“That’s lovely,” I said.

“Yeah?” She searched my expression. “It’s … simple and … intimate.”

“Mm. Great atmosphere.”

Hannah practically vibrated with happiness on my lap. This side of her—the feminine “ooh”ing and “aah”ing over bridal magazines—surprised me, but pleasantly. I wanted to make her happier. I would give her anything. A fucking fairy-tale wedding. A cake ten stories tall.

I opened to another tagged page displaying more candlelit nighttime scenes. Jars filled with glass beads and lights, papier-mâché luminaries.