Page 34 of Imprisoned

“We’re not done yet,” he growls.

My body slams against my desk, the edge digging into my hips as he bends me over it. Papers scatter, and my pen holder crashes to the floor. I should care about the mess and risk, but I don’t. Can’t. Not when his hand presses between my shoulder blades, pinning me down.

“Axel—” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, needy despite the pleasure still pulsing through me.

“I said we’re not done.”

He enters me again in one brutal thrust. My oversensitive flesh protests, pleasure bordering on pain as he fills me completely. I stifle my cry, struggling for purchase on the smooth desktop despite my hands being tied together.

The sharp crack of his palm against my ass shocks a scream from my throat. Heat blooms across my skin, spreading outward from the point of impact. I should be horrified—I’m a professional; This is my workplace—but instead, I arch back into him, begging for more.

He obliges with another smack, harder this time, the sting making my eyes water.

“You like that, don’t you?” His voice is like honey, sticky and sweet in my ear. “The little doctor likes it rough.”

His hand snakes around to my throat, fingers pressing against my pulse points. The pressure increases gradually,restricting my airflow. Panic flutters in my chest, a caged bird trying to escape, but it only heightens everything else. Colors become more vivid, sensations more intense.

My lungs burn for air as he continues to drive into me, each thrust pushing me higher despite my recent release. The edge of the desk digs painfully into my hip bones, but I welcome it, the pain grounding me in this surreal moment.

His grip on my throat tightens just a fraction more, and spots dance in my vision. I’m floating, untethered, completely at his mercy.

I’m floating in a sea of sensation, my mind detached from my body as Axel holds me on the knife edge between pleasure and pain. The pressure on my throat increases, and my vision narrows to pinpricks of light. I should be terrified—this man has killed before—instead, I surrender completely.

My body responds to him in ways I’ve never experienced. Each thrust across my desk sends papers scattering to the floor. Client notes. Assessments. My professional life disintegrating as I give myself to a convicted murderer.

“Look at you,” Axel whispers. “The perfect little doctor, coming undone for a convicted murder and psychopath.”

He releases my throat enough for me to gasp a lungful of oxygen. It floods my system, intensifying every sensation. My nerves are electrified and sensitive.

“Please,” I moan, not knowing what I’m begging for. More? Less? For him to stop? For him to never stop?

His laugh is like velvet against my skin. “What would your colleagues say if they could see you now?”

The thought of Eleanor or Doctor Jameson walking in should horrify me, but it only heightens my arousal. I’m crossing every line I swore to maintain, violating every ethical code I promised to uphold.

“They’d see the real you,” Axel continues, his rhythm never faltering. “Not the mask you wear.”

Is he right? Has this proclivity always been inside me, waiting for someone to unlock it? The thought terrifies and exhilarates me in equal measure.

His fingers tangle in my hair, yanking my head back at an angle that forces me to arch deeper. I glimpse our reflection in the small exterior window that looks out onto a disused service area—my flushed face, my wide eyes, his powerful form behind me. I barely recognize myself.

“Confess your hunger.” He deliberately slows his pace until I whimper. “No more hiding.”

The confession burns in my throat. Voicing my desire would transform this moment—no longer something I could pretend was beyond my control, but a choice I was making.

“Look over your shoulder at me and speak your truth,” he orders, and when I glance over my shoulder, I see intensity burning in his gaze. “I won’t continue until you claim what you want, Willow.”

His hand tightens in my hair as his other grips my hip hard enough to bruise, and I can’t lie anymore. Not to him. Not to myself.

“I want this,” I confess.

“Louder.” He punctuates the command with a particularly deep thrust that makes me moan.

“I want this!” I hiss, knowing that if I’m too loud, everything will unravel. I want you, Axel.”

Something breaks inside me with those words. All the careful barriers I’ve constructed and the denial and self-delusion crumble away.

“I’ve wanted you since I first saw your photo in the file,” I continue, the truth pouring out of me like blood from a wound.“I’ve dreamed about this. About you. About what you’d do to me.”

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