The room was quiet, lit only by the flicker of enchanted lanterns and the steady rhythm of Tom Riddle’s breath. You sat on his lap, the space between you charged with the heat of the kiss you’d just shared. His hands gripped your back, pulling you closer, his lips moving against yours with slow, deliberate intent.

The silence of his office only made the moment more intense. Tom’s body was tense beneath you, but his control never wavered. When his tongue traced your lips and slipped inside, you gasped, your pulse quickening in response.

Each movement, his lips, his hands, the subtle press of his body against yours, sent waves of heat rolling through you. His fingers slid beneath the hem of your blouse, warm and possessive, as he pulled you tighter against him.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, but Tom wasn’t letting you go. His dark eyes met yours, heavy with desire, and a knowing smirk played on his lips.

“You’ve been making me wait long enough,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous promise that sent a shiver down your spine.

Then he kissed you again, deeper, more urgent. His hands roamed your skin, his body hard against yours. In his lap, with the fire of his touch and the darkness in his gaze, nothing else mattered.