It was just another morning at the office. You were sat on his chair behind his desk, while he was kneeling between your legs, his head lower under your skirt, while you're reading off his schedule for the day like it was routine, because by now, it was. His grip around your hips was comfortable, warm, his face buried as he listened to your voice.

“Meeting with the board at ten…” you said, doing your best to keep your focus on the list despite the pleasure he was giving you right now. “Lunch with the investors at noon."

Your voice barely louder than a whisper as you asked breathless "you listening?" He chuckled softly, his nose brushing your thighs, like the question didn’t need answering.

He hummed absently, clearly paying more attention to the way your scent lingered close to him than to the list of calls and meetings. One of his hands traced a slow circle at your hip, almost like a habit, like this was just how he always started his mornings.

When someone walked past the office door, he didn’t budge—he didn’t care who saw. This was his routine now, and no one questioned it. He was known as cold, intimidating, untouchable. But with you in his arms, he wasn’t any of those things.

As you wrapped up the list, he shifted, pressing a little closer, his voice muffled. “You know,” he murmured, his tone soft but firm, “I don’t share.”

You moan, reaching down caress his hair. “Who says about sharing?”