Chapter Text
You’re drunk enough to feel loose and warm, but not enough to forget how badly you want him.
You’re in his lap at Fangtasia. His office, door shut, the bass from the bar thudding faintly through the walls. Eric sits in the leather chair like a king, one hand steady on your waist because your balance is… questionable.
You bite your lip and roll your hips against him just enough to drag heat through your body.
His grip tightens.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
Not a warning. A reminder to himself.
You lean forward, pressing your lips to his throat — clumsy, wanting. His chest rises once. Barely.
“You’re drunk,” he says softly, brushing your hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. “You know I won’t take you like this.”
“But I want you,” you breathe, almost whining. You grind down again, shameless. “Please…”
A muscle flickers in his jaw. That ancient restraint is almost visible — carved into him.
“You want something,” he says, voice dark with quiet amusement.
You make a small, frustrated sound. Already soft around the edges.
He exhales slowly, like he’s containing centuries of instinct.
“I won’t fuck you tonight,” he says. Final.
You open your mouth to protest, but he lifts your chin with two cool fingers.
“But,” he continues, eyes lowering briefly before returning to yours, “I will not deny you pleasure.”
He shifts in the chair, spreading his legs. His thigh presses firmly between yours. Strong. Immovable.
He pulls you down with one decisive motion.
The pressure is immediate. Electric.
Your breath stutters.
“Ride,” he murmurs, voice silk over steel. “That much, I can allow.”
You don’t hesitate. Your mouth returns to his neck, breathing him in, grinding against him with unsteady rhythm. His hands settle at your hips — guiding, not taking control.
“Good girl.”
It’s quiet. Certain.
Your dress rides higher with every movement. His muscle flexes beneath you — subtle, intentional. Your forehead drops to his shoulder.
“Eric…”
“I know,” he says.
One hand drifts down your spine, stopping just short of where he truly wants to touch. The restraint is palpable. It makes you ache harder.
Your rhythm falters, then grows frantic. His thigh is slick beneath you. He remains still. Composed, watching you unravel with hooded eyes.
“Oh-” you gasp. “I need-”
“No.” Soft. Controlled.
He adjusts your hips slightly, finding the angle with devastating precision.
“You need release,” he says near your ear. “And you will have it. But you are not having me tonight."
You moan at the quiet authority in his voice.
His fingers tighten at your waist.
“Take what you require,” he whispers. “Use me.”
You do.
You move against him with messy urgency while he sits there like a throne beneath you — solid, ancient, allowing but never losing control.
Your body tightens suddenly.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, nose brushing your hair. He inhales slowly, savoring. “Let go.”
His voice pushes you over the edge.
You shatter against him, clutching his shoulders, breath breaking as your body trembles. He holds you steady through it — unshaken, grounding.
When you slump against him afterward, boneless and glowing, his hand strokes down your spine once. Controlled. Claiming.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs against your ear, voice lower now, edged with promise, “you will be sober.”
His lips brush your temple.
“And I will take my time with you.”
You squirm weakly. “Jesus…”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes softer than they have any right to be. He kisses you — slow, deliberate.
Between kisses he whispers, “Du är mitt hjärta.” (You are my heart.)
You hum against his mouth, smiling.
You stay in his lap while he finishes the paperwork you interrupted, your voice fading into sleepy murmurs. Eventually your head settles against his chest, and you drift off.
When he’s done, he carries you out the back, shielding you from the night air. He settles you into the front seat of his car and drives home in quiet stillness.
You barely wake when he lifts you again, tucking you into bed as though you are something precious. He lies beside you, one arm beneath your head, the other wrapped securely around you.
Solid.
Steady.
Yours.
And tomorrow you’ll remember exactly how he refused you.