He didn't take me to a bedroom. He took me to his study, a room that smelled of old leather and power, and lined with bookshelves that felt like they were closing in on me. He kicked the door shut behind us and carried me to a large mahogany desk, sweeping everything off it with a single, violent crash of his arm. Papers, a decanter, a pen, they all clattered to the floor, clearing the space for me.

He set me down on the edge of the desk, the wood cold against the back of my thighs, and stepped between my legs, his hands planting on either side of my hips, trapping me. The position left me vulnerable, open, with nowhere to look but at him.