Cullen’s breath, short and hitched—staccato notes lost in the fur of his pauldrons.
His lover, warm and
, poised between his legs and coaxing sounds out of his throat, raw and stifled.
He warned her.
He grips the edge of his desk with both hands, knuckles white and jaw taut.
He tries not to flinch when Cassandra finally walks in, but his face feels warm and his blood feels cold and his loins are on fire. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
She speaks and he squirms and she frowns and he catches his bottom lip between clenched teeth, sweat pearling at his brow.
A pen is knocked off the desk—his gestures are brusque, abrupt, nostrils flaring at the same rhythm as his wild heartbeat, and she knows something’s amiss.
, clearing his throat to muffle a moan, and he breathes hard, toes curled and legs spread wider.
“I’m fine,” he manages to croak, surprising himself, and his head pounds and he
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