(Mafia boss Noel fantasy mixed with a request for a curvier reader. Thanks to whoever made the droolworthy gif that I found in this post)
It was late, and the club was empty. Upstairs in the office you’d spent the evening wrestling ledgers into order. You stood over the last one, fingers brushing the edge of the cover when you felt it. The Chief was standing silently in the doorway watching you.
He hadn’t expected you to be useful when you first arrived. Your brother had borrowed from the wrong people, gambled money he didn’t have, and landed himself in trouble. The Chief had bailed him out. Now the debt was with him. You were between jobs and had reluctantly offered to step in where you could and work it off. He’d looked you over once and agreed.
You’d mentioned some office experience, enough to make it sound like you’d be useful around the books. He figured he’d let you have a look. Supervised by one of his men, of course. You seemed like the kind of woman who didn’t take up space or cause trouble.
The moment you stepped into his books, everything changed. His ledgers had been a disaster. Weeks of figures forced together into chaos. He’d had others trying to wrestle order out of half-kept records with little success, but you’d just seen what was wrong and started fixing it. By the time he realized what you were doing, it was already done.
You’d untangled problems he’d always been told couldn’t be solved. Numbers finally made sense. Deadlines stopped slipping. Payments lined up the way they were supposed to. Before he understood how it had happened, his entire operation had tightened around your steady, careful hands.
He didn’t comment on your work or thank you. He simply had your desk moved into his office so he could keep you where he could see you. You were efficient and reliable, too valuable to leave tucked away where anyone else might interfere. He wanted you close for control. And that control felt very easy.
You weren’t flashy. You didn’t flirt or demand attention. You worked quietly, methodically, without drama. That was why he’d somehow started to trust you. And why keeping you in his office made sense. It was practical, he told himself.
But once you were there he became very aware of things he hadn’t planned on noticing.
The pencil skirts, buttoned blouses, clothes that fit perfectly and drew his eye without meaning to. The way the fabric pulled when you moved: the gentle fullness of your breasts, the shape of your hips and the roundness of your bum.. It got to him. It wasn’t supposed to. You were just there doing your job. Focused. Unbothered. And you didn’t even seem to realise the effect you had on him. And that made it harder. Made him look longer. Think about it more than he wanted to.
He tried telling himself that it was just the inevitable effect of having a woman in his space day after day. But that didn’t explain how sharply his attention was drawn to the sound of your sigh. It didn’t explain why the stretch of your blouse could derail his focus for a full minute. Why he started noticing what you wore before he even registered what you said.
Worse were the moments he wasn’t with you. He’d be out for the evening, a beautiful woman at his side, and his mind still kept drifting back to you. It irritated him. You were nothing like the women he usually noticed. And yet you were the one he constantly thought about.
The women he usually chose were easy choices: beautiful, polished, uncomplicated. The sort who looked right on his arm. There was nothing wrong with them. Still, he’d noticed that he’d begun to feel oddly tired of it all. He wondered, whether he’d been confusing habit for preference simply because it was expected of him.
With you, there were no expectations at all.
You weren’t trying to impress him or flatter him. You moved through his office like his gaze didn’t follow you. Like you had no idea what your body did to his concentration, or how tightly he was wound by the end of every day with you sitting just a few feet away. Or worse, that you were aware, and choosing not to acknowledge it.
He found himself imagining being the one to to break through that calm. He could read tension. Yours wasn’t weakness. It was control, held too tightly for too long, waiting for the right hands to take it.
He pictured your voice trembling as you said yes, sir. Your head lowering in quiet trust. That soft body of yours, tense so tense before giving in because you chose to.
He knew he was in trouble.
At first you thought it was just routine oversight, yet routine didn’t feel like this. The weight of his gaze tracking you when you leaned in to double-check a line or the way the air shifted when he stood behind you. It was as if there was a pressure in the room whenever he was there.
He tried to look uninterested, but small things gave him away: the pause before he answered, the way his attention sharpened when someone else lingered near your desk. Something between you had shifted and it was steadily building.
Men like him didn’t usually look twice at you. You were used to being overlooked, getting the job done, staying out of the way. You didn’t dress for attention. Pencil skirts. Blouses. Heels that straightened your back and made you feel pulled together. Neat. Contained. A way of holding yourself steady in rooms that didn’t always make space for you. Control, more than confidence.
You’d learned early how to take up as little room as possible. Competent without being visible. Wanting attention had never felt like a sensible expectation.
There was no part of you that ever expected to be wanted. Especially not by a man like him. A man with weight in every step, with a reputation that bent rooms around him. Older. Powerful. The kind of authority you’d learned to move carefully around, not imagine yourself drawing the focus of.
You weren’t a stranger to sex. You’d had a few men. Most of them casual, and, if you were honest, quite forgettable. A few had been polite and careful, interested just enough to enjoy what was offered, but never enough to reach beneath the surface. No one had ever made you feel like your body was something to be wanted, not worked around.
But lately he didn’t look at you with hesitation or doubt. And you hated how much some part of you responded to that. With hunger.
It was something physical and bone-deep. Something that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the way your breath caught when he stepped close. The way your body betrayed you whenever he spoke.
At first, you didn’t recognise your body’s response for what it was. You told yourself it was nerves. Respect for a man with a reputation you understood well enough to stay careful around.
But little things caught you off guard, as your body seemed to be reacting before your brain could intervene. Your breath going shallow when he leaned over your desk. The flutter in your stomach when he said your name. The heat in your cheeks when you realised he was watching you work. None of it fit the explanations you kept trying to give yourself. So you dismissed it. Called it imagination. The strain of long days. Just awareness, nothing more.
People downstairs had started to notice how The Chief shifted when you were near. So you reminded yourself what this was: a debt, a job. Nothing else. Keep your head down. Stay invisible.
But invisibility didn’t hold in this room. Not with the silence pressing close, or with the heat curling low in your stomach every time you felt him watching you. The line between work and whatever lived underneath it was thinning. Too thin for him. And far too thin for you. And tonight, in the near dark of his office, you felt that line give the faintest pull as the door lock clicked, soft and final.
The Chief stood a few feet away, coat open, gaze sharp and unreadable. You didn’t turn. And he knew, in that instant, that he was finished pretending.
He’d spent weeks watching you, noticing you, telling himself it meant nothing. He’d allowed the tension to sit between you, unspoken, unresolved, like a problem he kept refusing to address. And that wasn’t how he handled things. He dealt with problems. He made decisions. He took control.
Tonight, the waiting had begun to feel more dangerous than acting. Letting it linger any longer meant admitting it was stronger than he was. He didn’t tolerate that from anyone. Least of all from himself. So he did what he always did when someone in his world stopped obeying the rules. He changed the terms.
Locking the door wasn’t impulse. It was a decision. Standing there behind you, he intended to see it through. So he stepped closer.
His hands came down on either side of you, braced against the cabinet. Just close enough that you felt the heat of him at your back, his arms forming a deliberate, inescapable boundary. A quiet reminder that this was his office, his space, his decision.
“Six weeks,” he said, voice low beside your ear. You gripped the edge of the cabinet to keep yourself steady.
“Six weeks you’ve been sat in here,” he went on, calm and measured. “Doing your job, keeping your head down like a good little girl.” His breath brushed your cheek.
“Polite. Professional. Acting like this is just another bit of work.” You didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
“And all that time,” he murmured, “you’ve been pretendin’ you don’t know what’s been building in this room. Pretendin’ like you don’t feel it.” Your pulse thudded hard. He knew. He’d known the whole time.
“Well, I’ve had enough of pretendin’.”
He leaned in just enough that the edge of his jaw grazed your temple. The tilt of his head, the angle of his body, the heat at your back: it was all deliberate, no room left for misunderstanding.
“You feel what you do to this room. To me,”he murmured.
Your breath shook. Your fingers tightened on the cabinet.
“I wanna hear you say it,” he said.
His voice didn’t rise. It dropped. Lower, steadier, carrying the kind of weight that didn’t need volume.
“Say you know who you’re standin’ in front of.” He leaned in just enough that you felt the words more than heard them.
Your throat tightened. You could feel your heart beating in places you didn’t want him to notice. But there was no point pretending now.
His hands tightened on the cabinet, a controlled pulse of satisfaction. He didn’t move back.
“Good,” he said, almost under his breath. “Now say it again.” Heat swept through you, helpless and deliberate at the same time. You turned your head the slightest fraction, your cheek brushing the line of his jaw.
He made a slow, unmistakable exhale against your skin. The air changed. Denser. Warmer. Your heartbeat filled the quiet.
His right hand lifted from the cabinet, slow and certain, settling at your waist. His palm was warm, heavier than you expected. His thumb traced a single line along the waistband of your skirt. A quiet, possessive stroke that lit a path down your spine.
His left hand followed, settling at your hip. His chest brushed your back, the steady rise and fall of him matching the tension gathering in the room. Then his voice shifted, rougher, pulled from someplace deeper.
“Tell me what happens now.”
You let your head fall back the smallest fraction, enough for the nape of your neck to graze the collar of his coat, enough for him to feel the surrender you were choosing.
Then, calm, measured, certain you said quietly, “You decide, sir.”
A low sound left his throat, approval and hunger braided together. With a quiet pressure, he guided you face him. You didn’t resist. Didn’t even think to. The low light from the lamp behind him caught the focused glint in his eyes as they locked onto yours. There was no doubt about what he wanted. Or who was in control.
Then his fingers took hold of your blouse by the waistline of your skirt. He tugged the fabric up slowly, and teased it free. Your breath was already catching, heat curling low and deep. His palms slipped underneath and smoothed over your waist, pressing you into the cabinet behind you. He paused there, holding you in place and watching you with a calm that only made everything inside you burn hotter.
He lifted both hands to the top button of your blouse and undid the first button. His gaze never left your face. He continued to the next and the fabric parted a fraction, revealing the hollow of your throat. Three.
The lace edge of your bra appeared. He took his time, knuckles brushing the skin he uncovered, watching every flicker across your expression, every catch of breath.
When the blouse hung fully open, he let it stay there, framing you. For a second you forgot to breathe.
His hands settled at your collarbones, thumbs tracing the soft skin with slow, deliberate precision. Then they slid downward, pushing the fabric off your shoulders and down your arms until it slipped free and fell to the floor.
Instinct took over and you shifted, arms moving without thinking, trying to fold yourself in, to cover the soft curve of your stomach you’d spent years learning to hide.
His hands stopped you immediately.
“No,” he said. Quiet. Final. You froze, cheeks burning, suddenly aware of how obvious your reaction must have been.
“I didn’t tell you to hide.”
His fingers closed lightly around your wrists, guiding your hands away from your body and back to your sides with calm authority.
You swallowed hard. “I just…”
“Enough.” The word cut cleanly through the air. Certain. “I decide what happens in this room,” he said, voice low. “Not you.”
His gaze moved over you slow and thorough, as if he had every right to look and take his time doing it.
“And you don’t need to protect yourself from me. You’ll keep your hands where I want them,” he added, fingers releasing you only when he was sure you understood. “And you’ll stay exactly as you are.”
There was no room to argue. No space for the old insecurities you’d carried with you. Just his voice and the quiet command in the way he held you there. And slowly, breath unsteady, you obeyed.
You stood in nothing but your bra and skirt, pulse hammering beneath his palms. His eyes dropped taking in the rise and fall of your chest, the tight peaks of your nipples pressing against lace.
His hand moved to the clasp at your back. One twist, and the bra loosened. He didn’t pull it away.
“Take it off,” he said, low and quiet, voice rough but calm.
Your fingers trembled as you lifted the straps from your shoulders and the cups from your breasts, slow and deliberate. Your chest rose and fell fast, shallow breaths catching at the heat radiating from him. Every time you obeyed pressed the tension in the room tighter.
He exhaled, slow, satisfied. His hands returned to your waist, thumbs moving to brush the underside of your breasts, careful not to touch the places that made you ache most. The faint pressure made your back arch slightly, shivering at the warmth of him. You let out a low sound as you felt the heat from his hands.
“Feel that?” he murmured, coat brushing your skin. His words were quiet, controlled, and somehow sharper than a shout. You nodded. “Good,” he said.
Heat pooled low, spreading fast, leaving you aware of every pulse, every nerve.
“Right,” he leaned in and whispered near your ear, “we’re gonna take this nice and slow. Gonna take me time.” His gaze roved over you, piercing and careful at once. “Make you wait the way you made me wait every night, sittin’ there, pretending none of this touched you.”
You swallowed hard, chest tight, pulse quick. Every breath, every flicker of movement still belonged to you, but only because he allowed it. Because you gave it to him. And suddenly you felt the deep and aching need to let go. To give him control and feel what it meant to be claimed.
His voice came again, lower this time, rough with restraint. “Turn around.” You moved, slow, deliberate, heart hammering in your chest.
“Hands on the cabinet,” he said, and it was absolute. You obeyed, palms pressing flat against the cool wood, fingers splaying as though bracing yourself against more than the surface. Every inch of your body knew he was there. Your breath hitched, shallow, uneven, as if the simple act of standing there, doing exactly what he told you, had become impossibly charged.
He leaned in for a moment and his hand slid up to the front of your throat, thumb resting in the hollow of it, feeling the wild beat there, as though the only thing that mattered was feeling how hard your pulse betrayed you. “Let me remind you who this room and everything in it belongs to.” He let the silence hang, thick enough to taste.
His hands moved to the small of your back, fingers brushing the waistband of your tight fitted pencil skirt. He found the zip at the center and tugged it downward, inch by inch, the snug fabric stretching over your hips and the swell of your arse before giving way. He pushed the fabric over your backside with a soft rustle and it fell to the floor, leaving you only in pantyhose and knickers.
His hands lingered at the small of your back for a heartbeat steady, claiming, keeping you exactly where he wanted. Every nerve in your body was drawn tight with anticipation, knowing nothing would move until he allowed it.
Then one hand slid down, unhurried, over the curve of your hip. The other followed, tracing the line where your skirt had already fallen, where only the soft stretch of your tights remained.
His fingers paused there, lingering at the edge of the fabric. His breath slowed, eyes tracking every inch he touched. The heat of you under his hands, the way your curves filled his palms, made something tighten low in his gut. He hadn’t expected it to feel like this. To feel you like this. So soft and warm and real. It hit deeper than he’d planned for.
He crouched down, palms dragging down your thighs to your ankles.
“Foot up,” he said, low and firm.
You obeyed, bracing yourself against the cabinet. He pulled one heel off, then the other, and set them aside without looking away from you. His hands returned, gliding back up your calves, strong and sure.
His fingers reached up and slipped beneath the waistline of your pantyhose, knuckles grazing skin, and you shivered from the restraint in his touch.
“You keep still for me,” he said, voice low against your ear. “Understand?”
Satisfied, he began to ease the tights down. His hands moved with purpose, palms and fingertips dragging along the outside of your thighs, smoothing over every inch of skin he uncovered. His breath brushing the back of your leg, hands strong but reverent as they followed the fabric’s path.
The nylon peeled away inch by inch, caught and dragged over your knees, then your calves, then ankles, until he drew them free completely and set them aside.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t rush to stand. Just lingered there a moment longer, hands still on your legs, his thumbs stroking the backs of your calves, then slowly sliding upward again.
This time, his touch shifted.
One hand moved inward, palm gliding along the inside of your knee, then higher. He parted your thighs with the barest pressure, like he had every right to take up that space. Your breath caught when his hand stroked higher, fingers sweeping over the soft skin at the top of your inner thigh, slow and unbearably gentle.
His hand settled high on your inner thigh, squeezing the soft flesh with slow, deliberate pressure, the ache twisted sharp and hot through your core. You whimpered.
It escaped before you could stop it, quiet, involuntary, pulled from somewhere deeper than words.
His hand stilled for a second. Then he leaned in, voice dark and low behind you.
“There she is.” He hadn’t kissed you. Hadn’t even touched you where you ached for it. And yet, your whole body was already shaking for him.
He caressed you like he had all the time in the world, fingers splayed, following every curve, every dip, like he was memorising it by touch alone. His hand lingered low, then swept higher again, fingers slipping just beneath the hem of the lace.
Then his palm flattened against your lower back.
You obeyed without hesitation, hands bracing against the cabinet, body shifting under his direction. That quiet obedience stirred something sharp and satisfied in him. Just a small tilt of your hips, just enough to open you up to him, and yet it felt like a turning point.
He stepped in behind you, hands returning to their place, gliding over the curve of your arse. Slow. Heavy. Taking his time.
Then he squeezed the fullness of your cheeks with both hands.
Firm. Deliberate. Possessive.
His grip sank in, full-palmed, thumbs pressing in to part you just enough to feel how you gave under him. No rush. No hesitation. Just control. Just a man with both hands on something he fully intended to keep.
You gasped, breath catching from the pressure alone. The sound made something low in his chest hum with approval. He leaned in, voice pitched low at your ear.
“You like this, don’t you.”
His thumbs dragged outward in slow, shallow paths, testing the give of your flesh, watching how your body responded beneath his hands.
“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he murmured.
He gripped your arse again, firmer now. Steadier. His hold pulled your entrance open a little more, just enough to make you shift, to make the tension between your thighs build under his touch. Every movement of his hands was intentional. Focused. Like he was learning your body by feel alone.
He’d never touched anyone like you before. Not this soft. Not this full.
His women had always been sleek, sculpted things. Polished and practiced, the kind who knew how to put on a show. You were delicate in a different way. And you gave under his hands like you wanted to be held this way. Like you’d been waiting for it.
And that made him greedy. His hands stayed where they were. He wanted you to feel every inch of it. The weight of his attention. The truth of what he wanted. All of you.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, close, rough with control. “Still tryin’ to keep quiet on me,” he murmured. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
His hand glided over the curve of your hip until his fingers found the lace of your knickers in front.
He traced the seam of you, feather-light, through the soaked lace, following the line of your slit with devastating patience. Just enough to make you feel every nerve ignite and beg for more.
His other hand moved upward, slow and deliberate, his knuckles grazing the swell of your breast.
You sucked in a breath, but he didn’t rush.
He cupped you fully, the weight of his hand grounding and possessive. He stroked his thumb over the curve first, then pressed his palm in gently, massaging with a kind of quiet focus that made your whole body tighten in response.
Then his fingers shifted, found the nipple, and began to circle: slow, patient strokes that made heat bloom deep in your belly.
A rough breath escaped him. He’d always liked big breasts, always been drawn to them, but this, the way it filled his palm and overflowed it, the warmth of it was something else entirely. He brought his other hand up, cupping you fully now, both palms heavy and certain, fingers splaying to take in the full weight of you. Real and warm. More than he was ready for.
He just stood there for a moment, pressed against your back, just holding you like that. The soft give under his hands. The way your body arched into his touch without hesitation. The quiet sound you made, barely a breath, but it went straight through him. His grip flexed, jaw tight.
“Fuck,” he muttered, low and unguarded.
It slipped out before he could stop it. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t want to.
His hands stayed on you, steadying, claiming, until the burn in his gut forced him to blink, to remember himself.
Then his other hand slipped down the front of your body, palm flat against your stomach for a moment, feeling the soft rise and fall of your breathing. Then dipping lower until they found the lace of your knickers, stroking maddeningly light up and down your folds. Just firm enough that you could feel it, but not nearly enough for pressure to build.
You let out a quiet moan before you could stop yourself, soft and breathless, and your back arched toward him instinctively. You needed more.
He noticed. Of course he did. His finger pressed a fraction harder through the thin, soaked fabric of your knickers, right over your clit, firm and unyielding for one perfect heartbeat. The sudden increase in pressure sent a sharp jolt through you. Your hips jerked forward before you could stop them, a soft, desperate sound slipping past your lips. Then he pulled back. Completely.
His hand lifted away, leaving you throbbing, empty, the ache blooming sharper in the sudden absence. “That’s what greedy girls get,” he said, voice low and even, like he was stating a simple fact. The kind of calm that made your stomach twist with want and frustration in equal measure.
A soft, frustrated sound escaped you. His mouth curved, dark and knowing. “Stay still,” he said, voice low. You forced yourself motionless. He rewarded the obedience with another slow stroke, fingers circling, pressing, retreating, circling again. Never enough. He kept working you in his hand, watching you respond, like he had all the time in the world and every intention of using it.
Your breath hitched, sharp and unsteady, as his thumb pressed down on your nipple, slow, firm, rolling it between the pad of his thumb and the side of his finger until the sensation spiked straight down your spine and pooled hot between your legs.
The thin lace of your knickers was already soaked, clinging, useless against the deliberate drag of his fingers. He was still tracing lazy, maddening circles over your sensitive clit through the fabric, pressing just enough to make your hips jerk forward before he eased off again, denying you the friction you were starting to chase.
The hand on your breast squeezed once, possessive, then slid up to collar your throat just enough to remind you who was holding you together. His fingers between your legs dipped lower, pressing the soaked lace into your folds, outlining you through the wet fabric before returning to that slow, cruel circling over your clit.
Your head tipped back against his shoulder. You couldn’t help it.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice so rough it scraped. “Let me feel how much you’re dripping for me.”
He hooked two fingers under the edge of your knickers and tugged the fabric aside, just enough. His fingers slicked through your folds, spreading your wetness up and directly over your clit in one devastatingly slow stroke. Your knees bucked.
His hand came up and rested at your throat.
Just the warm weight of it. Your breath hitched. His thumb brushed once, slow and deliberate, a silent reminder of who was in charge. And you went perfectly still.
“Find the ledger and talk me through the week.”
His voice was low, calm and deliberate.
You opened the ledger with unsteady hands, flipping to the correct page.
“It’s… it’s sorted by intake, cash, and..”
You sucked in a breath, the words breaking as a strangled moan escaped your throat.
Your hips twitched involuntarily as he kept drawing slick circles over your throbbing clit. You blinked hard, forcing yourself to keep going.
“Transfers,” you managed, voice thin, shaking, “and… and the new vendor line’s flagged at the bottom…” Warm fingers curled at your throat, just enough to remind you who you belonged to in that moment.
“Can I count on you to be my good girl and stay still for me?” Your breath fluttered beneath his palm. You nodded, a small, automatic gesture. He didn’t let it stand.
You swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he murmured, voice brushing the edge of your ear. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” His hand at your folds shifted, pulling you back into him with quiet authority, until your body met his, and you felt it: the hard press of his thick cock, still clothed, rigid against the curve of your backside.
There was no mistaking it now.
You tried to keep speaking, to finish your sentence, but the words faltered under the heat coursing through you.
His grip on your throat held as his hips pressed forward, just enough to keep you pinned between him and the counter, letting you feel every hard inch of what your composure had done to him. The pressure of him there, still so unmistakably aroused, shattered whatever poise you had left.
And then his fingers moved again, merciless, circling your clit with almost cruel intent, drawing slick heat from your entrance while denying you everything else. It was too much.
“Keep going,” he said softly, just at your ear. Steady. In control. “Tell me about the rest of the week.”
His fingers never paused. Your voice shook. “We… we closed two new vendor contracts.. Tuesday and Thursday.”
The words barely formed. You weren’t sure if they made sense.
“And?” he pressed, tone maddeningly even, like he wasn’t wrecking you with his hand while asking about numbers.
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe right. All you could feel was him, his hand between your thighs, his cock pressed against you, his breath calm while yours fell apart.
“I.. I can’t,” you breathed. You weren’t sure if it was an admission or a plea. But it broke loose before you could stop it.
He didn’t sound surprised. “Mm,” he murmured, like he’d been waiting for it.
Then his hand left your throat, he stepped back and it landed hard across your arse cheek. The sound cracked through the quiet, sharp and certain. The sting bloomed fast, heat rushing across your skin.
You jolted forward on instinct, but he caught you, firm and unshakable, pulling you right back into him. Into the solid press of his chest. Into the hard length of him behind you. His palm returned to the same spot, rubbing over the sting with slow, deliberate pressure.
“I didn’t ask because I thought you could,” he said at your ear, calm as ever. “I asked because I wanted to hear you try.” You trembled under his touch, pulse hammering.
“You holding it together..” he said, his fingers slipping low again, finding your clit, teasing you with that maddening precision. “..is not the part I’m after.” You whimpered, hips twitching toward his hand.
“I want you to break,” he murmured, “You’ve made me wait long enough.”
Then both hands came to your hips, firm and unyielding. He held you there for a beat, then slid one palm up slowly your spine until it rested between your shoulder blades.
“Forward,” he said. The pressure was gentle, but there was no mistaking the command in it. He guided you down until your chest met the cabinet, his hand holding you there, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. One at your back, the other returning to your hip, anchoring you in place.
You felt the shift in him and then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your knickers. He dragged them down in one smooth motion. The lace slid down your thighs and caught at your knees before he kicked them the rest of the way off.
He stepped in again, hips grinding at the curve of your arse, letting you feel the thick, undeniable shape of him through his trousers. He hissed at the contact. Then he pulled back and sound of his zipper broke the silence. “You want to fall apart?” he said, voice low and certain. “Then you do it on my cock.”
Then he pushed in. One deep, claiming thrust that stole the breath from your lungs. You cried out, caught on the edge of it, knees nearly giving beneath you. He stayed there, deep and still.
“This,” he said, voice rough and satisfied, “is mine now.” He didn’t move right away.
Just held you there, his hand sliding up, curving around your throat. You were trembling, breath shallow, your body already straining to take more, to move, but he didn’t let you.
“You feel that?” he said, voice low, close, steady. “How deep I am?” You couldn’t speak. You nodded, barely. His grip shifted, firm at your throat, a slow drag of his hips back… before he drove in again, deep and unrelenting. You gasped, sharp and helpless. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Take all of me.” The rhythm he set wasn’t fast, but it was devastating. Measured thrusts, each one deliberate, each one pushing you further toward the edge you were barely clinging to.
His hand moved from your throat to your chest, finding your breast and gripping it, thumb stroking the already-sensitive peak.
Your mouth fell open. The moan that left you was raw.
“You don’t hold yourself together now,” he said, breath warm at your ear. “You give me everything.” Another deep thrust. His hand between your thighs again, fingers finding your clit and circling it just right, slow and relentless.
The sound you made was barely human.
He didn’t stop. “Come for me. Now.”
It tore through you before you could catch it, sharp, deep, overwhelming. Your whole body arched, legs shaking, a broken cry caught in your throat as the climax surged up and out of you, hot and helpless.
His hand stayed at your throat.
He held you firm through every wave, every tremor, his cock still buried deep inside you, still fucking you as your knees threatened to give.
“Good girl,” he murmured against your skin. “That’s it.”
And you felt the way his breath faltered against you. The way his grip tightened. The way his hips pressed in, deeper, slower, harder.
He groaned low and quiet, like he hadn’t meant to, but there was no holding it back now. His hands gripped your waist, fingers digging in as he gave the final thrusts, deep and full, and came with a rough exhale against your shoulder.
You felt him shudder behind you, still buried, still holding you, still solid even in the loss of control. He didn’t speak right away. Just stayed there. Breathing hard. His chest rose and fell against your back, his body heavy with heat, the air between you electric and still. He held you back to him as he caught his breath.
“You with me?” he murmured, quieter now.
You nodded, dazed, your cheek resting against the cool counter.
“Yes, sir,” you whispered, voice wrecked.
A soft sound of approval left him, warm and low.
You breathed in deeply, the trembling in your legs not quite gone, but the weight of his body still behind you kept you upright.
“You stay there,” he said quietly. “Don’t move.”
You watched him cross the room, calm and unhurried. He disappeared into the side washroom. You heard the rush of water, the wring of fabric. When he returned, he guided you to turn and knelt in front of you. His hands were steady as he eased your legs apart, the quiet authority in his touch never fading.
He paused for a beat, gaze fixed, watching what he’d left behind. The sight of his release slipping from you hit harder than he expected. A visceral mark of what he’d done. Of what you’d let him take. Something in his jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.
Then, without a word, he lifted his hand and brushed his thumb lightly over your entrance and folds. Just once. A slow, thoughtful stroke. To feel it. You whimpered at the oversensitivity.
And then he reached for the cloth. The warmth of it barely registered compared to the weight of his attention. The cloth was warm when it touched you, too gentle for the man who had just clutched your throat and wrecked your entire composure. He moved with slow, deliberate care, wiping you clean like it mattered only pausing once when you flinched with oversensitivity. His hand steadied your thigh. “Easy,” he said softly.
You breathed through it, hands gripping the cabinet edge behind you. When he was finished, he set the cloth aside, before helping you step into your knickers. He drew them up your legs himself, his fingers brushing your skin with more reverence than heat. Then he stood and helped you dress the rest. When he was done, he stayed close, his body just inches from yours, one hand still resting lightly at your waist.
His gaze searched yours. Then he leaned in without warning and kissed you. It caught him off guard how much he needed the gentleness of it. How necessary it felt to make this moment deliberate.
His hand rose to your jaw to keep you with him. To make sure you understood his intent.
When he pulled back, he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you, like he was seeing all of it. The wrecked edges. The obedience. The surrender. The trust. Then he took your hand and led you across the room. He sat down in the office sofa, and pulled you into his lap. Your legs draped over his, your side tucked close against his chest, his arms around you like you were made to fit there.
You hadn’t realized how tired you were until you settled against him. His hand smoothed slowly up your spine, the other resting low on your hip.
“You did so well,” he said, voice low.
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Not with your body still buzzing from everything he’d taken from it. His hand traced slowly down your spine. The silence between you was thick.
“You understand now,” he said, voice quiet near your ear. You stilled, breath catching. His grip tightened, just slightly. “You don’t get to walk away from this. From me.”
His thumb brushed along your jaw, and when you looked up, his gaze was already waiting for you, steady, unreadable, and far too calm to be casual.
“You’re mine. And you should know that I don’t like sharing.”
Then he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. Like a claim.
And you knew, whether you said it aloud or not: he was right.
