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Tristan kisses me back like a man possessed, one hand sliding from my jaw to fist in my hair, angling my head just how he wants it. The slight sting of it sends fire racing down my spine, pooling hot and low in my gut. I can taste the sweetness of his tongue, mixed with something darker like frustration, surrender, and the sharp edge of him finally giving in. It makes me groan low in my throat, the sound swallowed by his mouth.

God, I’ve imagined this a thousand times, but nothing comes close to the reality of him: the faint scrape of his stubble against my chin, the heat radiating off his body pressed so close I can feel every shift of muscle, every ragged breath he takes like it’s costing him.

Our hands turn desperate, clawing at each other like we can’t hold it in anymore, the kiss fracturing into something wilder, hungrier. Before I can think, my fingers are shoving his suit jacket off his shoulders, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt because I need to feel him, need proof this isn’t dissolving into smoke.

The first brush of my palm against his bare chest hits like lightning. Hot skin over hard muscle, alive and trembling faintly under my touch, it sends a shiver through me so deep it borders on agony. Lust, yes, but laced with something worse: relief.

My hand drifts lower without permission, tracing his abs and the hard lines of his body, mapping the ridges of his abdomen, chasing heat until my fingers hit his waistband. I unbuckle his belt without warning, then the buttons, driven by that same starving momentum—

And then he pulls back.

The sudden break yanks a ragged breath from us both, mouths hovering, eyes locked. His are glazed, dark with pure heat, but threaded with that iron restraint he’s famous for, the last fraying line holding him back.

“Don’t make me do this, Maksim,” he rasps, voice gravel-deep, wrecked in a way that twists my gut. “Not here.”

The words should sound like refusal.

They don’t.

They sound like the last thread.

And it makes me want to break him more.

“If you back out now,” I say, voice steady despite the thunder in my chest, “I’m actually going to kill you.”

A short, disbelieving huff escapes him. Half laugh, half surrender, exhaustion flickering in his eyes like he’s tired of fighting himself.

“You’re insane.”

I flash him my cockiest smile. “Nothing’s stopping you from fucking me here, Tristan. Lube’s in my pocket.”

His brow arches. “Condoms?”

“I don’t let anyone bareback except you,” I say, holding his gaze without flinching. “So we’re keeping it that way.”

The words stun him—I see it hit, his eyes searching my face like he’s peeling back layers, weighing the truth of it, the vulnerability I just handed him on a blade. For one gut-wrenching second, he pushes back slightly, breaking contact, and panic rips through me like a knife.

Then it shifts.

Something primal uncoils in his gaze. It’s feral and possessive. My heart stumbles, anticipation flooding hot and dizzying.

“Time to fulfil that promise, then,” he growls, hands dropping to his trousers, unzipping them with deliberate slowness. His voice drops lower, laced with the dominance I’ve craved for years, the kind that makes my knees weak. “Take off your shorts. Now.”

The command hits like a drug. I hop off the desk without thinking, pulling out the lube from my pocket and tossing it on the desk. Then I strip fast—shorts gone, tank yanked over my head—bare under his stare, cock rigid and aching, every nerve screaming for his next word, his next touch. Exposed like this, in my father’s office no less, should feel wrong. It doesn’t. It feels like triumph, like finally dragging him into my chaos.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping close, eyes raking over me like he’s memorizing every inch.

His fingers trace my hip, feather-light at first, then dipping below my navel, lower, teasing the line of tension building unbearably in my gut. Anticipation coils tighter, hunger tightening to a knife’s edge. My breath hitches as his hand finally wraps around my cock firmly. And a groan escapes me as my body shudders violently, knees nearly buckling from the sheer overload of him touching me like this, claiming me like this.

“I wish I could take my time with you,” he murmurs, voice rough with regret and heat as he strokes once, drawing another wrecked sound from me. “To do this right. But we’ve got minutes, not hours.”

Then, without warning, his hands grip my hips possessively. He spins me around with raw power and bends me over the desk in one fluid, merciless motion. The cold, unforgiving edge of the wood bites into my palms as I catch myself, the sudden vulnerability slamming into me like a freight train. My heart thunders against my ribs, a wild mix of adrenaline, shame, and aching want twisting violently in my chest.

He doesn’t speak. He just stands behind me, silent, devouring the sight of me bent over for him after all these years. I feel the weight of his stare dragging down my spine and lingering on the curve of my ass. I let him look, arching my back slightly, offering myself and letting him see exactly what he’s been starving for.

“You like what you see?” I ask, my voice low and teasing, even as my pulse hammers in my throat.

The sharp crack of his palm against my ass is his only answer. The sting blooms hot and sudden across my skin. I gasp, eyes flying wide, the sound torn from my lungs before I can stop it.