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It was late again. The hallways of the compound had gone quiet in that particular way they only did after midnight. The low hum of the overhead lights was the only sound that followed you as you padded down the corridor, boots softened against the concrete floor.
You hadn’t planned this. Not really. You’d only meant to stop by the office, grab a file you needed for the morning briefing, and get back to your quarters. That was it. Nothing more. But the moment you turned the corner and saw the faint strip of light seeping out from under his door, your stomach tightened in that all-too-familiar way.
Of course he was still awake.
Captain John Price didn’t know how to stop. He didn’t know when to call it a night, not when there was paperwork piled high on his desk and operations to plan. He thrived in this rhythm: cigar smoke, whisky gone lukewarm in the glass, pen scratching against endless reports. And yet, even knowing that, your hand hesitated on the handle for longer than it should have.
You weren’t just walking into your superior’s office. You were walking into the gravity of him.
You pushed the door open anyway.
The air inside was warmer, heavier, scented faintly of smoke and leather and something unmistakably his—earthy cologne that clung to his skin and uniform. The desk lamp cast a pool of golden light across the room, leaving the corners in shadow. Price sat there in his chair, hunched forward slightly, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms corded with tension as he flipped through a stack of reports. His cap was set aside, leaving his hair mussed, curling slightly at the ends from the long day.
He didn’t look up immediately. His voice came first, low and rough. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Your lips twitched. “I came for the recon file. Thought you’d left it in here.”
That was only half the truth, but it was enough to excuse your presence.
Finally, his eyes lifted to yours—blue and sharp even in the dim light. The kind of look that made you feel like he already knew what you weren’t saying. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. One of his brows arched, the faintest curve of amusement tugging at his mouth.
“Of course,” he murmured. “You always did like sneaking into my office at odd hours.”
You ignored the pull of his voice, the way it curled low in your stomach. As you closed the door and stepped further inside, you tried to play it casual. Tried to make your movements measured, professional, even as awareness prickled along your skin. You could feel his gaze on you as you passed his desk, lingering, assessing, far heavier than it should’ve been.
You found the file you needed—resting on the corner where he must’ve set it down earlier—and picked it up. You should’ve left then. Should’ve turned and walked out without another word.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you sat yourself on the edge of his desk, right next to him, deliberately casual. Legs crossed at the ankle, file in your lap. Close enough that the faint brush of your knee might’ve touched his arm if he leaned forward even an inch.
He noticed. Of course he did. His eyes flicked briefly to your legs before he looked back at you, that little smile ghosting the edge of his beard.
“You’re trouble, y’know that?” he said, voice gravelled, quiet in the heavy stillness of the room.
“You’re imagining things.”
But your tone betrayed you, lighter, teasing.
Neither of you moved for a long moment. It was a strange kind of standoff—no words, no touch, just the two of you holding each other’s gaze while the silence thickened between you.
The air seemed to buzz, a wire pulled taut.
You were hyperaware of everything. The way his broad shoulders filled that chair, the flex of his hands where they rested on the armrests, the faint scar along his temple that caught the lamplight. The way his eyes dipped now and again, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you noticed. Enough that it made your skin heat.
Rules. Regulations. The voice in the back of your head reminded you of them sharply. You weren’t supposed to be here like this. Not with him. Not like this.
And yet, neither of you pulled back.
Price exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. When he looked at you again, his expression was heavier, more unreadable.
“Should send you back to bed,” he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction.
You tilted your head, smiling faintly. “Then why don’t you?”
That earned you a low laugh—half disbelief, half warning. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees now, bringing him closer. The distance between you shrank, and your breath caught, just a little.
“Because I think you’d enjoy disobeying too much,” he murmured.
Your pulse thudded in your ears. The words weren’t innocent. Neither was the look that accompanied them.
You tilted your head, as if weighing his words, but you didn’t move from the desk. If anything, you shifted closer, just enough that his legs brushed the edge of your boot when he leaned forward.
“Maybe I would,” you admitted softly.
His eyes darkened, the faintest flicker of heat sparking there before he blinked, pulling it back under control. Price was disciplined, built from years of self-restraint, but even discipline had limits. And you could see it now—the struggle in the way his jaw clenched, in the deliberate stillness of his hands on his knees, as though he didn’t trust himself to let them move.
“Careful,” he muttered, though it sounded more like a warning to himself than to you.
Your lips curved into a slow smile. “I’m just sitting here. You’re the one making it sound like something else.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t play games you don’t mean to finish, love.”
There it was again—that crackle, like static right under your skin. Your breath caught, but you didn’t break the stare. You held him, steady, challenging, even as your body betrayed you: the heat in your chest, the flutter low in your stomach, the ache of want coiling tighter with every second.
“Who says I don’t mean it?” you asked.
The shift in the room was subtle but undeniable. He straightened slightly, gaze locked on yours, sharp and searching. The silence stretched, heavy with possibility.
You could feel it in the air now—that magnetic pull, the unspoken don’t move / don’t stop / don’t dare touch me war being waged between your bodies.
Price leaned back into his chair finally, exhaling through his nose. The leather groaned beneath him. His hand drifted toward his beard, thumb brushing over the edge of his jaw as if to anchor himself there.
“You like testing my patience, don’t you?”
You swung one leg idly, brushing your boot against the side of his chair. “Maybe. You make it too easy.”
His eyes tracked the movement, lingering longer than they should have, and when they came back to yours, something in them had sharpened. That low burn of restraint was still there, but now it was tinged with hunger, dangerous in the way it made your breath quicken.
“You don’t know what you’re stirrin’ up,” he said, voice rougher now, husky with the weight of what he wasn’t doing.
Your mouth was dry, but you forced the words out anyway, softer, braver than you felt.
“Try me.”
For a beat, nothing moved. Just his stare, heavy, unyielding, cutting right through you.
Then he huffed a laugh, low and incredulous, running a hand down his face again as if you’d just pushed him to the edge of something he’d been holding back for far too long. His knuckles dragged briefly across his mouth, the gesture almost too intimate, like he was hiding the words he wanted to say.
“Christ almighty…” he muttered under his breath.
Your pulse skipped.
When he looked at you again, he didn’t lean forward this time. He stayed right where he was, sunk back into his chair, legs spread in a posture that was all lazy command, like he was daring you to move instead. His gaze swept over you deliberately now, head to toe and back again, slow enough to make heat pool low in your belly.
“Go on then,” he said quietly. “You wanted my attention, didn’t you? You’ve got it.”
The challenge was there, thick in the way his words filled the room.
Your lips parted, breath shallow, as you shifted just enough on the desk that his eyes flicked there, quick and sharp. The air between you grew hotter, thicker, like every movement was amplified tenfold.
You should’ve backed down. You should’ve laughed, tossed out a casual remark, and walked out with the file like nothing happened. That would’ve been the smart thing.
But smart had left the room the moment you sat on his desk.
Your fingers smoothed idly over the file in your lap, though you weren’t really looking at it. You were watching him. Watching the way he lounged back in his chair now, deliberate in his stillness, legs spread wide in a display that wasn’t careless at all. No—every inch of him screamed controlled tension. The kind of patience that made your pulse race because you knew it couldn’t last.
“Feels like you’ve been watching me all night,” you murmured.
The smirk that curved his mouth was small, dangerous. “That so?”
You hummed softly, leaning back on your palms, arching just enough that your chest shifted under his gaze. His eyes flicked down before catching themselves, but it was too late—you saw it. You felt the thrum of victory coil hot in your stomach.
“Maybe I’m just imagining it,” you added, voice light, teasing, “but I think you like it when I test you.”
Price chuckled low in his chest, but there wasn’t much humor in it. His hand curled around the armrest, knuckles tightening just slightly. “Careful with that tongue, love. You don’t know the half of what you’re playing with.”
But you did know. That was the dangerous part—you knew exactly what you were stirring up, and you wanted it anyway.
“You’re still sitting there,” you said softly, tilting your head. “If you really wanted me gone, I’d already be halfway back to my room.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you. His jaw ticked, his breathing slow but heavier than before. The room felt smaller, the air thick enough to taste.
Then, finally, he moved.
Not much—just his hand, reaching up to his beard again, thumb dragging across his mouth as he studied you. But when he lowered it again, it didn’t return to the armrest. It hovered in the space between you, suspended.
Close enough to touch if either of you dared.
The breath stuttered in your chest.
That hand—broad, calloused, scarred—shifted fractionally, stopping just shy of your knee. He wasn’t touching you. Not yet. But the weight of it was heavier than if he had.
Your thighs pressed tighter together on instinct.
“See?” he murmured, voice pitched low, almost gravel. “You want me to lose it.”
You wet your lips. “Maybe I just want to know what happens if you do.”
That broke something in him. Not completely, but enough. His palm finally settled on your knee, heavy and warm through the fabric of your trousers. The contact was searing, and you inhaled sharply, your body jolting with how badly you’d needed it.
The sound he made—half groan, half curse—shot straight through you.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, thumb pressing lightly against the inside of your knee, testing the give there. “You’ve no idea what you’re asking for.”
Your voice was barely a whisper. “Then show me.”
And this time, he didn’t hesitate.
His hand slid higher, slow, deliberate, dragging heat up the line of your thigh. Not rushing—never rushing—but with a control that was somehow worse, somehow hotter than if he’d just grabbed you and pulled you close. His eyes stayed on yours the whole time, watching your breath hitch, watching your lips part.
You couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. The tension had snapped, but the restraint hadn’t left—it lingered in every inch of his touch, in every second he stretched it out just to make you squirm.
When his palm cupped your inner thigh, stopping just shy of where you ached for it, he leaned forward in his chair, closing that agonizing distance at last.
“Not a word about this, understood?” he said, voice dark velvet, pressing into you as surely as his hand was.
You nodded, quick, desperate, but he shook his head slowly, thumb pressing firmer into the sensitive skin of your thigh.
“Say it.”
Your throat was dry, but you forced the word out. “Understood.”
His mouth curved—half smug, half hungry—and then his hand slipped higher still, pushing right past that invisible line you both had been dancing on all night.
The rules were broken.
And it felt like you’d been waiting for this exact break for far too long.
His hand on your thigh was heavy, grounding, searing all at once. It was the first real contact after all that unbearable distance, and it lit you up instantly, your body clenching with want so sharp it made your breath stutter.
John’s thumb pressed just short of where you needed him, his touch infuriatingly close without giving you the relief you craved. You shifted under it, instinctively leaning into his hand and his low chuckle told you he noticed.
“Impatient little thing, aren’t you?”
You wanted to argue, but your words caught in your throat when his palm slid higher, cupping the heat between your thighs through your trousers. His fingers flexed once—testing, savoring—before withdrawing just slightly, enough to make you chase the contact.
Your lips parted. “John—”
The sound of his name, spoken soft and desperate, had his jaw tightening, his eyes darkening. He rose from the chair with a suddenness that startled you, the leather groaning as he pushed back and loomed over you.
The sheer size of him hit you like a wave—broad shoulders, presence overwhelming, his frame blotting out the light as he stood between your knees. His hands bracketed your thighs, thumbs digging into the edges, keeping you wide for him.
“If you knew how long I’ve wanted this…” he muttered, voice wrecked with restraint.
Your heart pounded against your ribs. “So do something about it.”
The breath he let out was rough, almost a growl. His hands moved to your waist, dragging you forward on the desk until your hips were flush against him, until you could feel the hard press of his arousal straining against his trousers. Heat flared low in your belly, a needy sound escaping you before you could swallow it back.
“That’s it,” he murmured, mouth close now, so close you could feel the ghost of his beard against your cheek. “Let me hear you.”
His lips finally brushed your jaw, then lower, skimming down to your throat. The scrape of his beard was electric, rough against sensitive skin, making you tilt your head back to give him more. His mouth opened against your pulse point, hot and wet, teeth grazing before he sucked lightly.
A soft gasp slipped out, your hands gripping the edge of the desk for balance.
“Good girl,” he rasped against your skin, his hand slipping down again, fumbling at the button of your trousers.
Your breath caught. “Here?”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression sharp, intent. “What, you worried about being caught? Door’s closed. Only thing you need to worry about is keeping quiet.”
Your stomach flipped. The way he said it left no room for argument, and you didn’t want to argue anyway.
His fingers worked your trousers open with practiced ease, tugging them down just enough to expose you. The air felt cool against your heated skin, but it didn’t last—his hand was there almost immediately, sliding your underwear to the side, and then he was touching you properly at last.
A choked moan caught in your throat.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he muttered, voice hoarse, jaw tight as his fingers slid through the slick heat of you. “You’ve been sitting here wound up, just waiting for me to break.”
Your hips jerked against his hand, your nails digging into the desk. “You—took your time,” you breathed, trying to hold yourself steady as his fingers circled lazily, deliberately avoiding where you needed him most.
John’s grin was wicked, beard brushing your temple as he pressed a slow kiss there. “I like seeing you like this. Begging without even using the word.”
You were trembling now, thighs quivering around his hips as he teased you, every touch maddeningly precise. His other hand slid up your back, pulling you closer, until your chest brushed against his, until his mouth hovered just over yours without giving you the kiss you were aching for.
“Ask me,” he murmured, lips barely ghosting yours. “Say what you want, love.”
You whimpered, your pride hanging by a thread. “Please… I want you…”
His thumb finally pressed against your clit, hard enough to make your breath shatter. You gasped, your hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders.
“There she is,” he groaned, fingers sliding deeper now, pushing inside you with a stretch that made your head fall back. The rhythm he set was slow, torturous, every drag of his fingers hitting deep, curling just right.
The desk creaked under you as you squirmed, your legs tightening around his hips, trapping him close. His body caged you in effortlessly, his chest against yours, his mouth grazing your cheek, your throat, your lips—always there but never giving the full kiss, never letting you have it all at once.
“Feel how tight you are,” he muttered, the rough edge of his accent breaking through, “grippin’ my fingers like you’re desperate for somethin’ bigger.”
Your moan came out broken, want flooding through you, your body arching helplessly into his touch.
John’s pace quickened, the wet sound of his fingers driving into you mixing with your ragged breaths. His free hand slid up, palming your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing over the peak until you cried out softly.
“Shhh,” he whispered against your ear, his teeth grazing the shell of it. “Don’t want the whole fucking base hearing how needy you are for your Captain.”
The words made you clench around him, your body tightening, spiraling fast. He felt it, growling low in satisfaction as his thumb pressed harder, circling faster.
“That’s it. Let go for me. Come on, love—”
Your orgasm hit sharp, overwhelming, making you cry out before you clamped your teeth into your lip to muffle it. Your body shook against him, thighs trembling, nails digging into his shoulders as the waves crashed through you.
He held you steady, fingers still working you through it, his mouth finally sealing over yours to swallow your cries in a bruising, hungry kiss.
When he pulled back, your lips were wet, swollen, your body boneless against him. His grin was dark, satisfied.
“That’s just my hand,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “What’re you gonna do when I bend you over this desk?”
Your body jolted at the words, heat licking down your spine, pooling low in your belly again despite how wrecked you already felt. The image—your body bent forward, his hands gripping your hips—seared itself into your mind so vividly that your thighs pressed together with a desperate ache.
You barely found your voice, a whisper that trembled against his mouth. “Whatever you want me to do.”
John groaned low in his chest, the sound guttural, feral, like the leash around his restraint was finally fraying. He pulled his fingers from you, wet and glistening, and you shivered at the sudden emptiness. Before you could whine at the loss, he brought them to your lips, smearing your slick across your bottom lip, his eyes hooded and dark as you instinctively parted your mouth for him.
“That’s it,” he muttered, pushing his fingers past your lips, slow and deliberate. “Taste yourself for me.”
The weight of his fingers on your tongue, the salt-sweetness of your own arousal, the way his gaze burned into yours—it was obscene, and you sucked them in deeper without thinking, hollowing your cheeks around them.
His breath hissed through his teeth, jaw clenching as his eyes flicked down to your mouth. “Christ almighty.”
When he pulled his fingers free, slick and shining, he wiped them across his beard, his lips twisting into a dangerous smile. Then his hand caught your jaw, firm but not cruel, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him.
“You look good like this,” he said roughly. “Come on. On your knees—”
And before you could blink, he guided you off the desk, steady and commanding, steering you down until you were kneeling on the worn carpet between his spread legs.
The sight of him from this angle stole the breath from your lungs. His belt was already straining, the thick line of his cock pressing hard against his trousers. He sat back down on his chair, watching you, his thumb brushing your lower lip like he was claiming it as his.
“Go on, then,” he rasped. “Show me how much you want it.”
Your hands moved almost on their own, unbuckling his belt, fingers trembling with urgency. The sound of it sliding free made your pulse hammer in your ears. You unbuttoned, unzipped, and then you were tugging the waistband down just far enough to free him.
Your breath hitched.
He was already hard, heavy and thick in front of you, flushed dark at the tip, veins standing out along his length. The sight alone made your mouth water, your thighs pressing together unconsciously as you wrapped your fingers around him.
“Fuck,” Price groaned, head tipping back against the chair, a vein ticking in his neck. “That’s it. Nice and slow, love.”
You obeyed, stroking him from base to tip, your thumb smearing the bead of pre-come over the sensitive head. His hips twitched, his breath catching, and you smiled faintly at the power in that small reaction.
But you didn’t stop there.
Leaning forward, you let your tongue flick over the tip, a teasing taste before you took him deeper, lips stretching around him as you slid him into your mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, his hand flying to your hair, gripping tight but not forcing, just holding you there like he needed the anchor.
You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, until the blunt head hit the back of your throat. The groan that tore out of him was low, guttural, vibrating down your spine.
“Look at you,” he muttered, his accent thick, broken by ragged breaths. “On your knees for me, takin’ my cock like you were made for it.”
The words made heat flood between your legs, made you moan around him, the vibration pulling another curse from his lips. His grip in your hair tightened, urging you into a steady rhythm, guiding you as you sucked him deep, your tongue working every inch of him.
Drool slicked your chin, wet sounds filling the office as your hand worked the base while your mouth swallowed the rest. Every grunt, every rough sound he made above you wound you tighter, until you were rocking subtly, trying to get any kind of friction, desperate for more.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Fucking filthy,” he groaned, eyes dark as they locked on yours. “Touching yourself while you’ve got your Captain’s cock down your throat.”
Your cheeks burned, but you moaned again, the sound wet and needy around him. His hips jerked, his breath roughening as his control thinned.
But then—suddenly—he pulled you back, hand fisting in your hair to drag you off him with a wet pop.
You gasped, panting, spit slicking your lips and chin, your chest heaving as you looked up at him in dazed want.
He was grinning now, a dark, feral thing that made your stomach flip.
“Not gonna waste it in your mouth,” he growled, pushing his chair back as he stood. Towering over you, cock heavy in his fist, he tilted his head toward the desk. “Get up, love. Bend over. Hands flat.”
Your body obeyed before your mind caught up, legs shaky as you scrambled to your feet and braced yourself against the desk. The wood was cool under your palms, your heart racing as you felt him step up behind you, his heat crowding you close.
He leaned down, his mouth brushing your ear, his cock pressing against your bare ass as he dragged your trousers down further.
“Time to show you what happens when you tempt me,” he whispered, voice dark and hungry.
The words alone made you tremble, palms pressing harder into the desk as if you could anchor yourself against what you knew was coming. His body was solid at your back, his cock heavy against the curve of your ass as he ground into you lazily, like he had all the time in the world to tease you apart.
You whined softly, shifting your hips against him, desperate.
“Greedy little thing,” he muttered, his hand sliding down your spine until it rested on your lower back, pressing you firmly against the desk. “Patience, love. You’ve wound me up for weeks—you don’t get to come undone that easy.”
Your breath caught, frustration and arousal tangling until you thought you’d combust. “John, please…”
He groaned low in his chest at the sound of his name on your lips, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you steady as he lined himself up. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your slick entrance, and your whole body shivered, the anticipation sharp enough to make your knees weak.
“God, you’re dripping for me,” he growled, dragging the tip through your folds, coating himself in your wetness without pushing in. “Soaking my cock before I’ve even given it to you.”
You bit your lip hard, your nails digging into the wood. “Stop teasing—”
A sharp smack landed on your ass, making you yelp and clench around nothing.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said, voice firm, though the warmth behind it softened the sting. His hand smoothed over the spot he’d struck, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. “You wanted this, love. You’ll take it the way I give it.”
Your core pulsed at his words, your body betraying you with how badly you wanted exactly that.
Then, finally, he pushed in.
The stretch was brutal, delicious—your walls clenching tight around him as he filled you slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried deep. Your breath broke on a moan, your forehead dropping to the desk as your body struggled to take the sheer size of him.
“Fucking hell,” he groaned, both hands gripping your hips now like a vice. “So tight I can hardly move.”
You whimpered, rocking back against him, desperate to feel more. “Please, John—move—”
He pulled out almost all the way before slamming back in, hard enough to rattle the desk beneath you. You cried out, your voice muffled against your arm, the shock of it stealing your breath.
“That what you wanted?” he growled, setting a punishing rhythm, each thrust deep and rough, forcing your body to take every inch. “Wanted me to fuck you over my desk like a needy little slut?”
Your moan answered him, high and broken, your body arching under the force of him.
“Yeah,” he grunted, slamming into you again, harder. “I knew it. Knew you’d love it—my good girl on her knees one minute, begging for my cock the next…”
His words set you ablaze, filthy and raw, but threaded with something else too—an edge of possession, of reverence. Like he wasn’t just degrading you—he was claiming you.
He bent over you then, chest pressing to your back, his mouth hot against your ear as he pounded into you. “You’re mine now. You hear me? Mine.”
“Yes—” you gasped, voice breaking on the word. “Yours, John, I’m yours—”
He groaned like the admission undid him, his thrusts faltering for a moment before he picked up the pace again, deeper, rougher. The desk creaked under the force, papers scattering to the floor, but neither of you cared.
His hand slid down, pressing between your thighs, his fingers finding your clit and circling hard. You cried out, your legs buckling, but his other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you up, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
“That’s it, love,” he panted, his beard scraping your cheek as his lips brushed your ear. “Come on my cock—make a mess for me.”
The pleasure was unbearable, building too fast, his cock driving into you just right, his finger relentless. Your vision blurred, your cries spilling into the wood beneath you as your body tightened, wound tight like a bowstring ready to snap.
And then you broke.
Your orgasm tore through you, violent and overwhelming, your whole body convulsing around him as you screamed his name. Your walls clenched down so hard on his cock that he cursed, his thrusts faltering as he groaned against your neck.
“Fuck—Jesus Christ, that’s it—good girl—”
He didn’t stop, didn’t let you breathe, fucking you through it, dragging every last wave out of you until you were sobbing with the intensity, your body limp against the desk.
Only then did he let himself go.
With a guttural growl, he drove deep, hips grinding against your ass as he spilled inside you, filling you with heat. His breath was ragged against your skin, his body shaking with the force of it, but his hands never left you—one still at your waist, the other covering yours on the desk, fingers entwining with yours as he groaned through his release.
Silence settled heavy after, broken only by your harsh breaths, the tick of the clock on the wall, the faint creak of the desk beneath you both.
He stayed inside you for a moment, his chest pressed to your back, his lips brushing sweat-damp strands of your hair.
“You okay, love?” he murmured, voice low but laced with something softer now, something careful.
You nodded weakly, your body still trembling, words failing you. “Yeah…”
He chuckled, warm and rough against your ear, kissing your temple before slowly pulling out, steadying you when your legs wobbled.
“Good,” he whispered, his big hands smoothing over your hips like he couldn’t quite stop touching you. “’Cause I’m not done with you yet.”
Your breath hitched, your body still trembling from the force of the first round. You weren’t sure how you could take more, but the way he said it—low, certain, full of heat and something softer beneath—had your knees weak all over again.
He turned you gently, guiding you around until you were facing him, your back pressed to the edge of the desk. His eyes roamed your face, your flushed cheeks, your swollen lips, the dazed haze still clouding your gaze.
“Look at you,” he murmured, brushing a thumb along your jaw. “Pretty thing. All wrecked for me.”
You managed a shaky smile, leaning into his touch. “Your fault.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and rumbling in his chest, and bent to press a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. It was different this time—less about hunger, more about savoring, about pouring into you what words couldn’t. His mouth was soft but thorough, tasting you, claiming you, until you sighed against him and melted into his hold.
His hands slid down to your thighs, coaxing them open as he stepped between them, his cock already stirring again against your bare skin. You felt the weight of it, thick and insistent, pressing at your thigh, and your body answered instantly with a fresh pulse of want.
“John,” you whispered, half a plea, half a prayer.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured back, his forehead resting against yours. “This time, we take it slow.”
He kissed you again, then began lowering you back against the desk, his hands guiding you down until you were lying flat on the wood. The lamp cast him in golden shadow above you as he looked down, unhurried, his calloused palms dragging along your sides as if memorizing every curve.
When he slid both your panties and trousers the rest of the way off and tossed them aside, his eyes darkened, his breath catching. “Beautiful,” he muttered, almost to himself, before leaning down to push your shirt up and press kisses along your stomach, slow and reverent.
You gasped when his beard brushed lower, his mouth trailing over your hip, your inner thigh. His hands spread your legs wide, holding them steady as his lips finally ghosted over your swollen, sensitive center.
“John—”
“Shh,” he husked, eyes flicking up to yours, burning blue in the dim light. “Let me take care of you.”
And then his tongue was on you.
The first long, slow lick made your back arch off the desk, your hand flying to his hair, tangling in the soft strands as you moaned. He groaned against you at the taste, the vibration sending sparks straight through your body.
“Christ, you’re sweet,” he muttered before diving back in, his mouth hungry but precise, tongue swirling around your clit before sucking gently, pulling another sharp cry from your lips.
Your thighs shook, trying to close around his head, but his strong hands pinned them open easily. “None of that,” he growled against you. “You keep those legs spread and let me eat you proper.”
The filth of his words, the command in them, had you clenching around nothing, your body thrumming with need. You obeyed, whining softly as you tugged at his hair, begging without words.
He worked you slowly, deliberately, alternating soft sucks with quick, teasing flicks of his tongue, driving you higher and higher while keeping you just shy of breaking. Each time you neared the edge, he slowed, pulling back just enough to make you sob in frustration.
“John, please—please, I can’t—”
He looked up, his beard wet with you, lips curved into a wicked smile. “You can. You will. I want to feel you fall apart on my tongue before I fuck you again.”
You whimpered, your head falling back against the desk, your hand tightening in his hair as he went back to work, this time not holding back. His tongue flicked fast and hard, his lips sealing around your clit as his fingers slid back inside you, curling deep, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes.
You broke with a strangled cry, your orgasm ripping through you hard enough to make your whole body jolt, thighs trembling violently against his hold. He groaned into you, tongue relentless, drinking down every drop of your release until you were a boneless mess against the desk.
“Good girl,” he praised, kissing your inner thigh before rising, his hands strong as they slid up your body. “That’s my girl.”
Your chest heaved, your skin flushed, your mind hazy—but then you felt him again, heavy and hard against your thigh, slick with your arousal and his earlier release.
You blinked up at him, dazed. “Already?”
He chuckled darkly, leaning down to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Didn’t say I was done, did I?”
And with that, he slowly pressed forward, carefully this time, his cock sliding back inside your drenched, sensitive heat.
The stretch was still sharp, but slower now, his eyes never leaving yours as he bottomed out, his forehead pressing to yours.
“There you go,” he whispered, his voice low and steady. “Take me again, love. That’s it.”
He started to move, slow and deliberate, each thrust deep and dragging, making you feel every inch of him. The rhythm was intoxicating—less violent than before, but no less intense, every stroke pushing you deeper under his spell.
You moaned, clinging to him, nails raking lightly down his back. “Feels so good—”
“I know,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours with every word. “Made to take me, weren’t you? My perfect girl.”
Your eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the heat, the closeness, the way he was moving inside you—slow, deep thrusts that dragged along every sensitive spot like he was memorizing the shape of you. His hips rolled into yours with controlled precision, the kind of patience only a man like John Price could manage after the storm of the first round.
"John..." you whispered, your voice breaking on his name.
He kissed you then, slow and consuming, his tongue sliding against yours as he pushed deeper, stealing the sound of his name from your lips. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his beard brushing your cheek.
“Breathe with me,” he murmured, his voice rough velvet. “That’s it. Good girl, nice and slow.”
And you did—you matched your breath to his rhythm, every inhale syncing with the drag of his cock inside you, every exhale breaking into soft moans you couldn’t hold back.
His hand slid down, spreading across your stomach, pressing lightly so you could feel the weight of him from the inside. “Feel that? Deep in your belly. You were made for this.”
Your body clenched around him at the words, a shiver tearing through you. “God, John…”
He groaned, low and ragged, his hips stuttering for just a moment before he steadied himself again. His self-control was ironclad, but you could feel it fraying at the edges every time you pulsed around him.
“Don’t rush me, love,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over your jaw, your throat, before settling at your ear. “I’m not letting this end quick. Not when I’ve wanted it for so bloody long.”
You whimpered, your thighs trembling as his pace stayed steady, unrelenting in its slow precision. Each thrust was deep enough to make your toes curl, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you that had you unraveling slowly, deliciously.
His thumb found your clit again, circling in lazy, deliberate motions that had your hips jerking helplessly. “Easy now,” he soothed, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Take it. Let me give it to you.”
The burn of pleasure built sharp and steady, slower than before but no less overwhelming. You writhed beneath him, your body strung tight, the heat pooling low in your belly until it threatened to spill over.
“You’re close,” he murmured knowingly, watching your face, his thumb pressing firmer. “Go on, love. Fall apart for me again.”
His words pushed you over.
Your climax came in waves, rolling and drawn-out, your walls clutching desperately around him as your cries broke free, muffled against his mouth when he kissed you through it. He groaned at the way you squeezed him, his control snapping for a heartbeat as his thrusts grew rougher, deeper, before he forced himself to slow again, to drag it out.
“That’s it,” he praised, his voice wrecked. “So good for me.”
You were trembling, your body wrung out, but he wasn’t finished. He braced a hand on the desk beside your head, the other sliding under your thigh to hook it higher over his hip, opening you wider for him. His pace quickened slightly—not pounding, but more insistent, more determined to chase his own release now that he’d given you yours.
Your body welcomed every thrust, slick and sensitive, your moans spilling freely as you clung to him.
“Look at me,” he rasped, and when your eyes opened, his gaze nearly undid you all over again—intense, unyielding, but soft around the edges, like he was giving you something no one else could have.
“Don’t forget this,” he said, his voice breaking with the force of his thrusts. “Don’t forget who fucking owns you.”
The filthy claim sent a fresh rush of heat through you and you tightened around him, dragging a guttural groan from his chest.
“Christ—” His rhythm faltered, his hand gripping your thigh harder. “Gonna fill you again—fuck, you’ll be dripping with me all night.”
Your moan was shameless, desperate. “Yes, John—please—”
That was all it took. With a harsh groan, he slammed deep, grinding into you as his release tore through him. His cock throbbed, spilling heat inside you in thick waves, his breath hot and broken against your neck as he shuddered with the force of it.
You held him through it, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him close as he emptied into you. His weight was solid, grounding, his chest pressed to yours as his hips finally stilled.
For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing, the faint tick of the desk lamp, the muted thrum of blood still rushing in your ears.
Then he shifted, bracing himself on his elbows to keep from crushing you, his lips brushing yours in a slow, tender kiss.
“Good girl,” he whispered against your mouth. “So perfect for me.”
Your heart clenched, warmth blooming in your chest even as your body ached, spent and sated.
And when his hand stroked gently over your hair, his blue eyes soft now, you realized he wasn’t just wrecking you—he was cherishing you, piece by piece.
The silence that settled between you wasn’t heavy then—it was full. Thick with breath, warmth, the sound of hearts that hadn’t quite steadied yet.
He kissed your temple, slow and reverent, and you felt the soft brush of his beard. A stark contrast to the filth of moments before. “Alright, love?” he murmured.
You nodded, your throat tight, your body trembling from exhaustion and everything else he’d given you. “Yeah… more than alright.”
A soft chuckle rumbled through his chest, but you heard it—relief under the warmth, as if he’d needed to hear you say it. His hand cupped your cheek then, thumb brushing across your damp skin, and he looked at you like you were something fragile he couldn’t believe he’d been allowed to touch.
“Good,” he whispered, almost to himself.
He eased out of you slowly, carefully, and the sudden emptiness made you whimper softly. His jaw tightened at the sound, but he soothed you with a kiss, whispering against your lips, “Shh, love. Got you.”
He gathered you up with surprising gentleness for a man who’d just fucked you into his desk, lifting you into his arms as if you weighed nothing. You curled against his chest instinctively, your cheek pressed to the soft cotton of his shirt.
Instead of heading for the door, he lowered into his chair with you in his lap, settling you carefully against him. One strong arm wrapped around your back, holding you steady, while the other smoothed over your thigh in slow, absent strokes. His body was still warm, still humming with spent energy, but he held you like you were something to steady him.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were your breaths slowly syncing, the faint tick of the clock on the wall, the muted rustle of his thumb against your skin.
When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher than before, quieter. “Didn’t plan for this.”
You tilted your head against his chest, your voice soft. “Neither did I.”
His chest rose and fell with a slow breath. “But… Christ, love, I don’t think I could’ve held back much longer. Not with the way you look at me.”
Your heart squeezed at that—the hint of vulnerability threaded through his words, the crack in the armor of the captain everyone else knew. Here, he wasn’t just Price. He was John.
You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes burned still, but softer now, stripped bare in the dim light.
“I wasn’t trying to tempt you,” you whispered, though the wry smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.
He huffed out a laugh, tilting his forehead to yours. “Liar.” His lips brushed yours, tender. “You’ve been doing it since the first day.”
The truth of it sat between you, unspoken but undeniable.
His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in for another kiss. Not hungry this time, not claiming—just steady, sure, like a promise.
When he pulled back, his thumb stroked your jaw. “You’re not just some distraction, you know. Not to me.”
Your breath caught, the weight of his words hitting deeper than any thrust ever could. “I know,” you whispered back. “And you’re not just my captain.”
Something shifted in his expression then—something that looked dangerously close to relief, to softness he’d never let anyone else see. His hand tightened on your thigh, his jaw working as if he was holding back words that wanted to tumble out.
Instead, he kissed you again, slow and lingering, before tucking you back against his chest.
“Stay a bit,” he murmured into your hair. “Just… let me hold you.”
And so you did, curled in his lap in that messy office, the papers scattered, the world outside forgotten. His arms wrapped around you like a shield, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt the weight of rules or ranks or wars.
For that moment, there was only the quiet, the warmth, and the steady beat of his heart against yours.
And the unspoken truth that whatever line you’d both crossed—you weren’t going back.