The door clicked shut, severing the light.

Your chest and stomach slammed against the desk, the cold solidity of the wood seeping through your shirt into your skin. In the next breath, a searing-hot body pressed down over yours, the weight crushing the air from your lungs.

William's knee forced its way between your thighs, spreading them open with relentless pressure. You were pinned beneath him, exposed and helpless, your body bent over the edge of the desk.

A low, guttural groan rumbled from his throat.

He didn't kiss you. Instead, he buried his face into the side of your neck. His usually immaculate black hair spilled forward, strands brushing against your skin, sending delicate shivers across your nerves. His lips pressed against the sensitive flesh of your nape, then his teeth followed—grinding, gnawing, marking the spot with a force that would leave bruises.

His breath was scalding, each ragged exhale burning against the hollow of your throat.

You could feel him trembling against your back. Not a small shake—this was the violent quiver of a man pushed past his limits.

His hands clamped around your wrists, pinning them above your head. And below—his cock, already rigid and burning—pressed insistently against the cleft of your ass, grinding through layers of fabric with each shallow, desperate thrust.

Every movement drew another broken gasp from deep in his chest.

He was holding back. You could feel it. He wasn't tearing your clothes, wasn't forcing himself inside you. But his body had stopped obeying his mind, moving on its own, seeking relief from the fever consuming him.

" ...Don't move. "

His voice finally came, raw and shredded.

"​Please … don't move …"

Then he buried his face deeper into your neck, his entire frame shaking.