“You’re lying.”
“You whispered my name. You started grinding against the pillow before I even laid a hand on you. You were soaked. When I touched you, you moaned like you’d been waiting for it. You came so soft and slow, like your body knew the rhythm.”
“You fucking touched me while I was asleep,” I snapped, fury breaking past everything else.
“I touched what already belonged to me,” he replied. “You can fight me all you want, Grace. But your body doesn’t lie.”
An arm locked around my waist, the other pinning my arms, and I was lifted, dragged, spun until my back hit the wall and his body caged me in. He was too close. Too solid. Too hot.
“Let me go!” I pleaded.
“You already did,” he said against my cheek, voice dark and gleaming with satisfaction. “You let go all over my hand.”
I choked on the sound in my throat, the denial, the shame, the rage. And all beneath it—the worst part—was how badly I still ached.
His thigh pushed between mine. I tried to twist away, but he only pressed closer.
“You want to tell me to stop?” he asked.
Yes.
But my mouth wouldn't open.
And my body was already giving him the answer.
His thigh stayed pressed between mine, warm and immovable. I could feel the tension in him—not just strength,but focus. Control. Every inch of him coiled like a trap that had already sprung shut around me. Heat radiated from him, dragging my body into awareness, into betrayal.
"You remember now," he murmured, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. His breath was warm, deliberate. "Not all of it, maybe. But enough."
I shook my head, weakly, a denial with no force behind it. My breath caught as he shifted, dragging the line of his thigh against me—against that aching, traitorous part of me that throbbed with raw memory. Shame crashed through me, brutal and blinding.
He saw it. Of course he did. He always saw too much.
"You think I’m the monster," he whispered, his voice dark silk. "But your body knew me. It welcomed me. You were soaked, Grace. Your thighs were trembling, your pussy gripping my fingers like you never wanted me to stop."
"Stop—" My voice cracked, but not from strength.
He pressed closer, hand skimming up to graze my jaw, then lower, teasing the dip of my collarbone. "You moaned for me in your sleep. My name. Like a prayer. Like a curse. You wore those little shorts—thin as breath—and I slid my hand beneath them so easily. You were open. Soft. Begging without words."
I squeezed my eyes shut, fury and confusion and heat knotting in my belly.
"You want to be angry? Be angry. But don’t lie to yourself. Don’t pretend your hips didn’t buck for me. That your mouth didn’t part when I made you come. That you didn’t soak the sheets after I left."
My thighs pressed together instinctively. The pressure only made the ache sharper.
"Get off me," I said, breathless, voice rasping with something dangerously close to want.
He didn’t move. He leaned in closer, lips grazing the shell of my ear. "Say it again. Say it like you mean it this time. Say it like you didn’t whimper my name while you came around my fingers."
My fists trembled at my sides. I hated him. I hated how much he knew. Hated how little my mind remembered.
And how badly my body wanted more.
He pulled back to look at me, those eyes dark and knowing, his mouth a breath from mine. "You’re not running again, Grace. Not tonight."
And I wasn’t. Because I couldn’t. Because my body had already betrayed me—was still betraying me, slick with memory, thrumming with need. My breath came in shallow gasps, my skin prickled with the ghost of his touch.
He noticed, of course. The way my thighs pressed together. The slight hitch in my breath. The heat climbing my neck.
