In my fantasy.
In the ruthless, blood-stained kingdom of my desire.
I would’ve stood—slowly, silently—without saying a word.
No warning.
No preamble.
Just stalk toward her and when I reached her, I wouldn’t touch her gently. No. I would seize her wrist, yank her into me so fast the air would whip around her body, and slam her onto my war desk with a crack loud enough to silence the fucking gods. Myguns, bullets, and knives would scatter. Maps and files would fall. Surveillance feeds would flicker.
But the only sound that would matter?
The gasp from her lips as I grabbed the back of her neck and bent her over my fucking desk.
Mine.
My woman.
My Tiger.
And I wouldn’t whisper her name, either.
I wouldn’t speak to soothe her.
I would grab the hem of that sexy fucking pencil skirt and rip it up to her waist.
No teasing.
No ceremony.
Then I would tear her panties apart like paper.
Lace?
Silk?
I didn’t fucking care.
They would be destroyed in my fist.
A trophy.
A casualty.
She would be bare, bent, and dripping for me.
Legs trembling.
Pussy glistening.
And I wouldn’t ask.
I would take.
I would drive my cock into her soaked cunt with the force of a man who’s starved, who’s been deprived of food, water, breath—and she was all three at once.
One brutal stroke.
