James does, but not without control

James groaned like I'd driven a knife between his ribs. In one brutal motion, he sheathed himself to the hilt—the slap of skin against skin echoing off the study walls. My cry shattered against the windowpane, the burn of sudden fullness stealing my breath. He held there, trembling, his fingers biting into my hips hard enough to leave marks. "Christ," he rasped against my shoulder, his voice raw. "Like a fucking furnace."

The reflection warped—his shoulders blotting out the lamplight, my back arched obscenely against him. His thumb never left my clit, rubbing tight circles that sent sparks up my spine. When he finally pulled back, the drag was excruciating, every ridge of him scraping sensitive flesh. His hips snapped forward again before I could protest, punching another gasp from my lungs.

"Fuck," James snarled, his rhythm already ragged. His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to leave bruises, each thrust punctuated by a filthy truth: "Dreamed about this—your cunt strangling me—every night since you fucking moved in." The vulgarity shouldn't have shocked me, but hearing that cultured voice fracture around obscenities made my inner muscles spasm around him. He groaned, hips stuttering.

The desk shuddered beneath us, pens scattering as his thrusts grew erratic. One hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat. His teeth grazed my pulse point. "All those skirts," he panted, "riding up when you bent over—" A particularly deep thrust stole his words, replaced by a guttural noise that vibrated through my spine.

His rhythm faltered when I clenched around him deliberately—his hips stuttered, his grip tightening convulsively on my hip. "Christ." The word came out strangled. He slowed abruptly, his cock throbbing inside me as he fought for control. The sudden shift from frenzied pounding to agonizing restraint left me whimpering.

James exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging his lips up the side of my neck. "Not yet," he murmured, though it sounded more like a warning to himself than me. His fingers slid from my hip to my clit, rubbing slow circles that contradicted the shallow rolls of his hips. "You first." His voice was rough with the effort of holding back. "Want to feel you come apart around me."

The deliberate pace was ****—each measured thrust hit that spot inside me with precision, but never hard enough to tip me over. His thumb pressed harder against my clit, the pad rough with callouses from years of handling tools. The contrast—his gentle, almost clinical focus above and the relentless, calculated fullness below—made my thighs quiver. I arched back against him, but his grip tightened, holding me exactly where he wanted.

"Watch," he ordered, nudging my chin toward the window's reflection. The sight undid me: his hand working between my legs, my breasts swaying with each shallow rock of his hips, the obscene glisten of sweat and slick where our bodies joined. His gaze locked onto mine in the glass—no smirk, just raw hunger. "See how you take me?" His voice cracked. "Like you were made for it."

The stretch burned deeper now, my body adjusting to his girth with slick surrender. His thrusts remained maddeningly measured, each withdrawal leaving me clenching around nothing before he filled me again with deliberate precision. His thumb circled faster, the calloused pad rough against oversensitive flesh. "Close?" The word wasn't a question—he could feel my thighs trembling, the way my breath hitched every time he angled just right.