Chapter 1: The Forbidden Drawer
The afternoon sun bled through the blinds, cutting the office dust into sharp, golden bars. Lanna’s heart hammered against her ribs as she stared at the screen, the flickering light from Bo’s monitor painting her stunned face. It wasn’t just comics; it was her, or a twisted version of her—long dark hair, piercing green eyes—rendered in graphic, obscene detail across panels of feverish fantasy. Her throat tightened, but beneath the shock, a warm, reckless curiosity uncoiled.
She closed the browser window, the images seared into her mind.
For three days, she played a game. She rummaged through her own suitcase, finding the clothes she’d packed to annoy her mother: a tank top two sizes too small, shorts that hugged every curve. She’d parade past his office door, bending low to pick up a dropped pen, watching his gaze snag and his throat work. She saw the struggle in the tight line of his jaw, the white-knuckled grip on his pencil.
Tonight, the stale air felt charged.
She leaned in the doorway, the fabric of her top straining. “Can’t sleep,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.
Bo didn’t turn from his desk. “Try counting mutants, Lanna.” His usual gruffness was stripped bare, leaving only raw tension.
“I saw them. Your drawings.” The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. He finally swiveled his chair, his eyes dark pools in the lamplight, stripped of pretense. She took a step into the room, the floorboard creaking like a gunshot. “Show me how you draw her.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Get out.”
“No.” She moved closer, until she could smell the graphite on his hands. His control was a brittle shell, and she wanted to shatter it. She placed her hand on his chest, feeling the furious pound of his heart. “You don’t want me to go.”
His restraint snapped. A rough hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back, his mouth crashing down on hers. It was nothing like the clumsy boys from school; this was all consuming heat and desperate hunger. He backed her against the desk, sending coffee cups crashing to the floor. His mouth left hers, trailing wet, biting kisses down her throat. “You little fucking tease,” he growled against her skin, his hands pushing up her top, his thumbs scraping over her nipples.
She gasped, arching into him. “Yes,” was all she could manage, a breathless surrender.
He spun her around, bending her over the chaotic desk. The cold wood bit into her stomach. One hand clamped on her hip while the other fumbled with his zipper. She heard the tear of foil, a moment of fumbling, and then the blunt, insistent pressure of him pushing against her. He was big, and she was tight, but wet with a depraved excitement she’d never felt. He didn’t ask, he just pushed, filling her in one long, brutal stroke that forced a choked cry from her lungs.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his body shuddering as he buried himself to the hilt inside her. He held there for a second, both of them panting, her inner muscles clenching around the sudden, delicious invasion. Then he pulled back and drove into her again, setting a raw, punishing rhythm. Each thrust rocked her forward, her cheek pressed against a sketch of her own leering, fictional doppelgänger. The pain melted into a deep, grinding pleasure, coiling tighter with every slap of his hips against her ass. His grip on her hip tightened, his other hand snaking around to rub furious circles on her clit. The dual assault was too much, too good. Her climax ripped through her, violent and silent, her mouth open in a soundless scream as her body clamped around him. He cursed, his rhythm faltering, and with three final, deep plunges, he emptied himself into her with a guttural groan, collapsing over her back, their sweat-slicked skin sticking together in the stifling, ruined room.