—•TRISTAN•—
To hell with self-control.
Fuck it.
That precious, carefully cultivated restraint I've spent years perfecting can rot in the deepest pit of hell for all I care.
Let it burn.
Let the abyss swallow every last shred of it.
I don't give a single, solitary s**t about it anymore.
Not when June is sitting on my desk, her skirt bunched high around her thighs, exposing the pale skin I've been dying to mark.
Not when her chest is rising and falling with those quick, shallow breaths that make her t**s strain against her blouse.
I want her.
I want her with a desperation that borders on clinical insanity.
And if I don't have her this second, I might bloody die.
"Sir," she whispers.
The word slips past her lips like a f*****g prayer, soft and breathless.
And I don't miss the ed
