Chapter 2: The Breaking Point

The hallway to the study felt longer than it ever had—dark wood paneling swallowing the light from the sconces, portraits of long-dead relatives staring down with disapproval Sophia could almost hear. Her bare feet slapped softly against the cold floor, thighs still slick from the kitchen confession, heart thudding so hard she tasted copper. Julian walked ahead, shoulders tense under his black T-shirt, jeans still unbuttoned from the moment he’d freed himself earlier. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. She was following.

He pushed the study door open. The room smelled of old leather, dust, and the faint vanilla of the candle their mother sometimes lit when she pretended to read in here. The brass desk lamp was already on—low, amber, throwing long shadows across the bookshelves and the massive mahogany desk where Sophia had once spent entire high-school afternoons sketching angry comic panels while Julian did calculus across from her, pretending not to notice her stealing glances at his forearms.

He stepped aside, gestured with his chin.

“Up on the desk. Legs wide. Show me what you’ve been hiding under all that attitude for years.”

Sophia’s breath caught. She hopped onto the edge of the desk—ass on polished wood that felt shockingly cold against her heated skin—then leaned back on her elbows, knees bending, feet flat on the surface. She spread her thighs until the stretch burned, cunt fully exposed: lips swollen and dark pink, clit engorged and peeking from its hood, a thin string of arousal stretching between her folds and dripping slowly onto the wood beneath her. She reached down with one hand, dragged two fingers through the slickness, coating them, then plunged three deep with a wet, obscene squelch that echoed in the quiet room.

Julian stayed standing, jeans shoved to mid-thigh, cock jutting out—thick base, angry veins, head flushed dark purple and weeping steady pre-cum that dangled in humiliating strings before snapping to the Persian rug. He gripped himself at the root—hard enough to make the head flare—then dragged his fist up slow, twisting at the crown until more leaked out.