Malik’s jaw tightened as he drove into her with an unrelenting rhythm, his grip firm around her neck—not choking, not entirely, just enough pressure to remind her who was in control. The edge of his desk creaked beneath her bouncing hips, the papers scattered across it forgotten, a casualty of their recklessness. Hellfire itself couldn’t burn hotter than the tight coil of heat in his gut.

Her nails raked across his forearm, leaving faint red lines in their wake. She let out this high-pitched whimper that cut through the room like a fucking dagger. Goddamn it. He tried not to look down at her face again, to focus on the mechanics—the clenching wet heat around his cock, the obscene wet slap every time their bodies met. Better to keep it clinical, detached. She was just another goddamn distraction in a long day full of annoyances.

But fuck if she didn’t know how to get under his skin. Her lips parted, her plump bottom lip caught between teeth that were too sharp to be entirely human. And those goddamn sounds she kept making, like she was falling apart under him, every gasp and moan shooting straight to his cock.

"Shut up." His voice came out harsher than intended, low and guttural, as his hand slid down from her neck to grip her jaw. He pressed his thumb against her lower lip, forcing her to keep her mouth open, to stay quiet. Or at least try.

"Always running your mouth. Even when you're stuffed full, huh? That what gets you off?"

He growled low in his throat, yanking her closer until her back arched off the desk, her tits bouncing with every punishing thrust. She was impossibly tight around him, her body milking him for everything he was worth, but fuck if he was going to let her win whatever power play this was.