Taken Against the Office Wall

The office door slammed so hard the frame shuddered, and for a second neither of them moved, like the violence of it needed to catch up with their bodies. Ella’s bag hit the edge of the desk first, tipping, spilling its guts across the rug—papers fanning out in a white storm, a pen rolling somewhere into the dark under the credenza. Her heel caught the strap. She stumbled sideways. Magnus’s hand shot out, not gentle, fingers closing hard around her forearm, and the momentum of catching her dragged them both off-balance, hip-checking the desk lamp, sending it swinging on its cord before it crashed to the floor and went dark. Neither of them looked at it. Her other hand fisted in his tie to keep from falling and instead pulled him down with her, and they staggered, thighs knocking, knees threatening to buckle, papers crunching underfoot as they fought for a single patch of solid ground between them.

His mine, was the only word that formed anywhere in Magnus’s skull. Not a thought. A verdict.

Ella’s brain had stopped negotiating three floors ago, somewhere between the elevator and this door. Now there was only heat and the size of his hands and how badly she wanted them lower.

Her grip on his tie loosened, forgotten, both hands finding better use. She got a fistful of his jacket and shoved it off his shoulders so hard the seam screamed, then ripped his shirt open with both hands, nails dragging hot lines down his sternum. He got a fistful of her blouse and tore. Buttons scattered, clicking off the floor, lost among the papers. His mouth found her collarbone first, teeth grazing, and then dropped lower, one hand yanking the cup of her bra aside hard enough to hear the lace give, and he closed his mouth around her breast through what was left of it, sucking hard enough that her spine bowed backward into his forearm. A growl vibrated up out of his chest and into her skin.

She shoved him. Not far—two steps, back onto the rug—but he went down like she’d asked him to, knees hitting the floor, and she was already yanking his belt loose, the leather hissing through the buckle. She popped the button, dragged the zipper down, fingers clumsy with how badly she wanted him bare. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed dark at the head, and the sight of it punched a small broken sound out of her throat.

She didn’t tease. She dropped straight down onto her knees between his thighs and took him into her mouth in one slow, wet slide, feeling him hit the back of her throat before she’d even adjusted. He tasted like salt and heat. Magnus’s hips jerked up on instinct, a strangled curse tearing loose, and his hand found the back of her head—not guiding, just needing something to hold onto while the floor tilted under him.

She gagged on the second stroke, throat spasming around him, and pulled back just far enough to breathe, spit slicking down her chin, before sinking down again, deeper this time, nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. Her eyes watered. She didn’t stop.

Fuck—there. Just like that, Magnus thought, or maybe said, he couldn’t tell anymore where his skull ended and his voice began. His fingers tightened in her hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to feel the drag of every inch she gave him.

Ella’s jaw ached already, a deep, satisfying burn stretched wide around him, and she loved it, loved the way his restraint was fraying in real time, his thighs shaking under her palms, his breath coming out ragged and short instead of the controlled, measured thing she’d watched him perform in meetings for eight straight months. She hollowed her cheeks, took him to the back of her throat again, held there one beat too long until her eyes streamed, and felt his whole body lock.

Enough, his brain screamed, or he’d finish here, on his knees, and that wasn’t the plan his hips had in mind. Magnus fisted her hair tighter and started moving her, short brutal thrusts up into her throat, fucking her mouth in earnest now, watching drool slide down over his knuckles, watching her take every inch with her eyes rolled half-shut and wrecked. She moaned around him, the vibration nearly finishing him right there, and the sound came out muffled, filthy, half his name garbled around a mouthful of cock.

He pulled her off with a wet pop that echoed obscenely in the quiet office. She gasped, chin slick, chest heaving. Magnus surged up onto his feet, dragging her with him, his hands under her arms hauling her upright and turning her at the same time, both of them off-balance for a second, scrambling to find the floor again. Then he was folding her down beneath him, guiding her back to the rug, his hand cupping the back of her skull to keep it from meeting the floor too fast, and he came down over her, one forearm braced beside her head, the other yanking her skirt up in a rough bunch around her waist. Papers crumpled and tore under her shoulder blades. She hooked one leg around his hip to drag him closer, impatient, and he tore her panties aside rather than bothering to remove them, the fabric snapping at the seam.

No words. Just a low animal sound in his chest as he lined himself up and drove home in one hard, brutal stroke.

She was soaked, silk-slick, and the drag of him stretching her open ripped a sound out of her that wasn’t a word at all—just air and vowel and need. Her nails found his shoulder blades and dug in. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. His full weight settled over her, pinning her flat to the rug, hips already driving, cock bottoming out deep with every thrust. The missionary crush of him was suffocating in the best way—his chest flattening her breasts, his mouth at her throat, his hips slamming with a rhythm that had nothing gentle left in it.

Take it, Ella’s mind chanted, half command half prayer, legs locking tight around his waist to keep him exactly there, exactly that deep.

Magnus felt every slick clench of her around him, the way her body gripped and pulled like it was trying to keep him. Mine, again, stupid and simple and the only thought his brain could hold onto through the haze. He grunted with each drive forward, breath scorching against her collarbone, skin slapping wet and loud against skin, the rug burning her shoulder blades raw with the friction of being dragged half an inch with every thrust.

“More,” she breathed, barely a word, more growl than syllable. “Harder—don’t stop.”

He didn’t. His hand found her thigh and hitched it higher, changing the angle, and the broken cry that tore out of her told him he’d found exactly the right spot. She arched up to meet him, grinding her hips in small desperate circles between his thrusts, chasing the friction, chasing more, sweat slicking the space between their bodies until every slam had a wet, obscene sound to it.

He could feel her starting to shake apart under him too soon, and some stubborn, possessive part of him wanted her upright for this, wanted to watch her fall apart on top of him instead. He gathered her against his chest without pulling out, one arm banding under her, and hauled them both up in a single strained motion—thighs screaming, back locked—while her legs scrambled for purchase around his waist, her arms crushing around his neck to keep from sliding. He staggered the two steps to the desk chair blind, nearly missing it, and dropped them both down hard, the chair groaning and rolling an inch under the impact before catching.

Ella planted her knees on the seat cushion on either side of his hips, finding leverage there, and for one breathless second they both went still, foreheads pressed together, feeling the new angle, feeling him seated even deeper than before.

Then his hands closed bruising-hard on her hips and he slammed her down.

The chair shrieked in protest under the wild rhythm that followed. She rode him hard, knees driving against the cushion for leverage, breasts bouncing inches from his face until he caught one in his mouth, biting down just shy of pain, growling against her skin with every upward roll of his hips. Her sounds had gone completely feral now, half moan half snarl, nothing coherent left in her mouth at all.

“Fuck—fuck, yes, right there—” she gasped, voice cracking apart mid-sentence.

“Mine,” he grunted against her throat, hips punching up to meet every drop of her weight. “Say it.”

“Yours—God, yours—”

His hands bruised her ass, lifting and dropping her faster, the wet slap of skin filling the room along with the chair’s protesting creak. Her clit ground against the base of him with every downward slam, sensation licking up through her spine, and she could feel herself teetering right on the edge of losing everything.

Magnus felt her start to lock up around him—the telltale flutter, the way her rhythm stuttered—and something primal in him refused to let her finish sitting down. He planted his feet, stood in one violent surge without ever slipping free of her, and she yelped, legs clamping like a vice around his waist as he carried her the short distance to the wall.

Her back hit plaster. He hitched her higher, both hands cupping under her thighs for better leverage, angling her open around him.

Weightless. No leverage of her own. Nothing to do but hang there and take it.

That helpless free-fall feeling detonated something in Ella—she had no control left, none, just his hands and his cock and gravity working against her, and every upward slam drove a sound out of her she didn’t recognize as her own voice.

Magnus felt the opposite—total control, her whole weight caught in his hands, her body open and desperate and his to angle however he wanted. He drove up into her hard and deep, again, again, watching her head fall back against the wall, watching her mouth open around sounds that had stopped being words three thrusts ago.

She went first. Her whole body seized, cunt clamping down around him in vicious, rhythmic pulses, thighs shaking uncontrollably around his hips, a broken growl tearing loose from somewhere low in her chest as her nails carved crescents into his shoulders. She couldn’t have said her own name in that moment. There was only the wall at her back and him buried to the hilt and the world dropping out from under her in ringing silence.

The clamp of her finished him. Magnus’s rhythm broke apart, hips stuttering, and he roared through it, forehead dropping to her shoulder, cock jerking hard as he emptied himself deep inside her in thick, pulsing spurts, hands locked so tight on her thighs she’d wear the marks tomorrow. Every muscle in his back seized rigid. His breath came in ragged, animal drags against her collarbone.

They stayed pinned there, her spine still flat to the wall, both of them shaking, both of them still joined, his cock twitching weakly inside her with the last aftershocks. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing left in either of them built for words—just ragged breathing, sweat cooling fast in the office air conditioning, and the papers scattered across the rug below, evidence of exactly how this had started and exactly how little either of them cared, right now, about how it would end.