Sitting on William’s lap doesn’t feel scandalous at first. It feels… intentional.
There’s a solidity to him that registers before anything else, the way his legs bracket you, long and steady, a quiet claim rather than a trap. You settle back and his hands arrive without hesitation, one at your waist, the other resting higher, just beneath your ribs, thumbs warm, absentmindedly anchoring you there as if he’s making sure you don’t drift away. He smells faintly of cologne and paper and something sharper beneath, and the heat of him seeps through your clothes until it feels like the chair has vanished entirely.
“You’re comfortable, darling?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
His voice comes from just behind your ear, cultured and low, spoken like a private aside during a performance meant only for the two of you. When you shift, even slightly, he reacts instantly, tightening his hold, guiding you back with practiced ease. There’s no rush, no hunger in the crude sense. It’s possession dressed as care.
His chin finds your shoulder. He’s too tall for this position, really, but he refuses to adjust, content to slouch if it means keeping you there. One knee bounces lazily, a tell you’ve learned means he’s amused. You can feel his breath change when you relax into him, the slow exhale that follows, heavier, satisfied.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Stay there, bunny.”
The pet name is deliberate.
He lets it linger, waits for the heat it brings to your face, and smiles faintly when he feels you still.
His fingers trace small, idle patterns at your waist, nothing improper, everything intimate. It’s grounding, enclosing, like being held at the center of something carefully controlled.
You’re aware of every point of contact, but what lingers most is the calm. The sense that, here, you are allowed to exist without performance. He’s still theatrical, still smug, but softened around the edges, curled around you like this is the only place he’s willing to let his guard down.
“My LoveBun...” he adds quietly, almost indulgent, lips brushing your hair.
And you know, with embarrassing certainty, that he chose that name purely to feel you melt against him.
