Nanami Kento📑

At this hour, the only sound in the office was the dry, rhythmic thud of the wooden desk against the wall each time Nanami charged with controlled, almost mechanical force, but charged with a contained fury that made the picture frames on the shelf tremble.
Your wrists were crossed with his black leather belt, tied to the edge of the desk where just twenty minutes ago you'd been sorting invoices. The navy silk tie—the same one he'd removed with two precise fingers while staring intently at you—now covered your eyes, knotted in that perfect knot only a man obsessed with control knows how to tie. You saw nothing, you only felt: the warmth of his breath against your neck, the rough brush of his still-buttoned shirt against your skin, the scent of expensive wood, freshly brewed coffee, clean sweat, and desire pent up during too many meetings.
"No more slowing down, damn it..." he growled close to your ear, his voice husky . "You've been provoking me all week with those pencil skirts and those 'Mr. Nanami, shall I check this?' while biting your lip. Now shut up and take it."