He stared at the screen in absolute, horrified silence, watching his wife writhe and sob against the desk, entirely subjugated and completely consumed by the violent, relentless friction.
Sophie let out a soft, breathy moan from the doorway, her hands sliding down the silk of her dress to press against her own aching core.
She couldn't tear her eyes away from the sheer, dominant spectacle.
"Ryan—fuck—yes," Diana babbled, entirely delirious, her head tossing blindly against the polished wood. "Don't stop—please—"
"I wont," Ryan rasped, his hands sliding up to grip her waist, his thumbs digging bruisingly deep into her soft flesh.
He pounded into her.
The heavy desk groaned under the shifting weight. The Warlord Protocol flared hot and vicious in his blood, demanding the total psychological annihilation of the man on the screen.
"I'm close," Ryan growled, his breathing turning ragged, his abs locking tight.
