He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at me, eyes dark, lips wet.
“That a no?” he asks.
My breath comes out uneven.
I hate him.
I nod once anyway. “No.”
The word barely exists.
But it’s there.
His expression shifts like the answer is a trigger.
He lifts me.
Not all the way off the floor. Just enough to make my back hit the desk, enough to put me where he wants me, enough to remind me who’s bigger and stronger and completely fucking inevitable.
My legs spread on instinct, and the shame of it flashes hot in my belly.
Then his hands are on my thighs, sliding up, pushing my jeans down just enough to get his fingers under the waistband of my panties.
I freeze.
His eyes snap to mine.
“Tell me no,” he says again, lower now. “And I’ll stop.”
My whole body is shaking.
Not with fear.
With wanting.
I swallow hard. “Don’t stop.”
His mouth curves like a devil.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the words make my knees want to give out even though I’m already on the desk.
He drags his fingers down, slow, and finds me wet like my body has been waiting for him for years.
I gasp.
My hand shoots out and grabs his cut like I can punish him for making me feel this. My nails dig into leather. He doesn’t flinch.
He leans in and bites the side of my throat, not hard enough to bruise, just enough to make me jolt.
His fingers stroke once.
Twice.
A third time, deeper, firmer, and my hips lift without permission.
“Look at you,” he whispers against my skin. “Acting like you don’t want me when you’re soaked the second I touch you.”
“Shut up,” I breathe, voice wrecked.
