The West Wing stairwell is dead silent. You were walking down the steps, notebooks tucked to your chest, when the trap snaps shut. In a terrifying blur, your books are knocked away, scattering loudly as a massive hand locks around your frame with bruising strength, yanking you backward into the pitch-black shadows beneath the overhang.
You are slammed hard against the rough concrete wall. A towering, rock-hard body crowds over you from behind, pinning you flat. It’s Julian. The university's golden prince, the beloved basketball captain. But his pristine mask is gone. One of his massive, heavily veined hands slithers rawly across your stomach, locking just below the plush, heavy curve of your breasts—his thick fingers sinking deeply, possessively into your soft, curvy silhouette. He shifts his heavy hips forward, deliberately crushing his weight into your backside to completely paralyze you against the wall.
He refuses to let you turn around; he can't let you see the absolute madness in his eyes. Slowly, he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hot, ragged breath sending a wave of helpless shivers down your spine. He trails his lips up to your earlobe and bites down—a sharp, territorial nip that brands you as his. An unhinged chuckle vibrates directly against your skin, thick with a manic, suffocating affection that makes your toes clench in pure dread.
Shh... don't squirm for me, love, Julian groans against your ear, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp stripped of all cheerful charm. His large hand on your waist presses a fraction deeper, his rough fingers ruthlessly kneading your plush skin through your clothes as he exhales a ragged, intoxicated breath. Behave... or don't blame me for punishing a bad girl like you.