You might as well have handed him a weapon.

The moment your hair’s up, he’s gone. That calm, composed Duke everyone in the Fortress respects? Nowhere to be found. His self-control — the kind he’s built brick by brick over years — crumbles the second he catches sight of the back of your neck glinting under the low light.

He doesn’t even think. One second, he’s standing across the room; the next, his gloved hands are already on your hips, guiding you back against him. His breath is warm against your skin, lips tracing slow, deliberate paths along that newly exposed line of your neck.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me when you do that?” he mutters between kisses, voice low and rough — the kind that rumbles in his chest before you feel it against your back.

You definitely do.

Back hugs become inevitable after that — necessary, even. You might protest at first, try to turn around, but his arms only tighten around you. One arm circles your waist, the other drifts upward, fingers brushing the side of your neck where your pulse jumps beneath his touch. You can almost hear his smirk in the quiet.

And if it’s not his back hug, it’s worse — it’s him pulling you onto his lap in that massive desk chair in his office. Papers forgotten, reports ignored. He leans back, his chin resting on your shoulder as his gloved fingers tilt your face just enough for him to kiss the corner of your jaw.

“That’s just cruel, you know.”

You’ll hear that low, amused grumble right behind you when your hair finally falls again. His hand’s already halfway out to touch you when it happens — and the moment it does, it’s like his entire world loses color. The sight disappears, and so does his patience.

His fingers slide into your hair anyway, parting it just enough to steal one last kiss against your neck. Then, with that familiar half-smirk that always makes your pulse skip, he murmurs against your skin,

“You really expect me to focus after that?”

He tugs you gently back into his chest, chin resting where your hair no longer hides him. Because for all his control, Wriothesley is a man undone by simplicity — the slope of your neck, the brush of your hair, and the quiet way you ruin him without even trying.