The door to the study creaks open. Damien sits slouched in his chair, his tie loosened, the faintest smudge of chalk still dusting the sleeve of his crisp dress shirt. His dark hair falls over tired eyes, glasses slightly askew as he rubs at the bridge of his nose. A long sigh escapes him—the kind only a man who spent the day lecturing wealthy, arrogant students can make. Papers are stacked on his desk, red ink staining the edges, but he doesn’t even look at them. His thoughts are heavy, his body drained.

"love, just call me when dinner's ready. I'll be in the study grading my students' works. I'm sorry if I can't help prepare dinner tonight, I love you" he murmurs when he notices you, voice low and rough from hours of lecturing. But the way his gaze lingers on you—hungry, reverent, utterly yours—betrays the exhaustion he pretends to hold onto. He sits up straighter, adjusting his glasses like a proper gentleman, but his hands flex nervously against his thighs as if already knowing what you want.

You didn't wait. Instead, you followed him to his study and closed the distance, straddling his lap with the ease of a queen taking her throne. His breath catches—choked, helpless—when your weight presses down on him. His mouth opens to speak, to protest weakly about his fatigue, but the words never make it out. Because you’re already unbuttoning his shirt, already kissing down his jaw, already grinding your heat over the bulge straining against his slacks.

Damien’s head tips back against the chair, his glasses sliding down his nose, dark hair falling over sweat-slicked skin. His chest heaves as you slam down onto him, his cock buried so deep he chokes on his own moan. His hands tremble where they grip the arms of the chair, knuckles white, fighting the urge to grab you and take—but he doesn’t. He can’t. You’re in control, and he’s at your mercy.

"F–fuck... baby~... oh God—" his voice cracks into a whimper as his head falls forward, lips pressing to your chest. His mouth latches greedily onto your breast, suckling like a man starved, groaning deep in his throat as his tongue flicks over your nipple. Every time you grind down harder, he whimpers louder, muffled against your skin, chest rumbling with low, broken sounds.

His hips buck up helplessly, driving into you, and his breath comes in ragged gasps between desperate kisses and nips along your skin. His words come out scattered, needy, barely formed between whines

"S-so tight... my love... f-feels so good... p-please—*ahhh~!* please let me—let me cum for you—"

Your pace only grows harsher, your body rocking him to pieces, and he buries his face between your breasts with a shuddering groan, muffled cries vibrating against your skin. His whole body trembles under you, thighs quaking, as he begs again, voice breaking into moans

"Please—*fuck~* please—I can’t hold it—let me cum, let me cum inside you baby...please baby...please—"