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My fingers are already under his shirt.

His mouth is at my neck.

There’s laughter, and breathless swearing, and at one point, a stapler and a cup of paperclips fall to the floor and scatter across the room.

He tugs me closer, and I hook my ankles behind him, the desk creaking under my weight.

It’s messy.

It’s perfect.

His hands slide up my thighs, nudging my skirt higher as he kisses me again.

I break away only long enough to whisper, “Close the blinds.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he reaches up, loosens his tie with one hand, and pulls it free in one smooth motion. He lifts it between us, an unspoken question in his eyes.

I nod.

He wraps it around my wrists gently, but the way his fingers tighten the knot leaves no doubt about how ungentle he intends to be next. He pulls my arms behind my back, binds them snug. I feel my chest rise with each breath, the pressure perfect, his control over me absolute.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he mutters. “Tied up and already squirming.”

I don’t respond. Can’t. My throat’s too tight and my skin’s too hot and he hasn’t even touched me yet.

“I’m not going easy on you today,” he tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

He nudges my knees apart with his thigh, pulling me closer to the edge of the desk.

His fingers dip beneath my waistband.

“You’re soaked.” His tone is nothing short of reverent.

I nod again, breath catching when he circles his thumb over my clit.

Our sex life has never been sweet. It’s intense. Raw. Moments that replay on a constant loop in my head when I’m supposed to be grading exams or working on lesson plans.

“How many times are you going to come for me today?” he whispers against my ear.

“Theo—” It’s barely a sound.

He sinks two fingers inside me and I nearly fall apart. The angle. The fullness. The way his other hand stays firmly wrapped around the tie, reminding me I’m held exactly where he wants me.

“You’re going to come just like this,” he says. “On my fingers. On my desk. With your wrists tied and your thighs shaking and my name in your mouth.”

And I do. Fast. Hard. Shuddering so violently my legs slip from the edge and he catches me, holds me steady.

But he doesn’t stop.

He unzips, frees himself, and lines up in one practiced move.

It forces the air from my lungs.

“Think about how many times you’ve wanted me to fuck you right here,” he growls. “Think about all the times you walked in wearing this tight little skirt, pretending you weren’t begging for this.”

Every thrust is a claim. Every moan a confession.