"That’s it," he said, his voice low, coaxing. "Don’t fight it.”
His hand skimmed along my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. I jerked away from the touch, but not fast enough to stop the shiver it left behind.
He stepped in closer, crowding my space until I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Still pretending you don’t want me? After what your body gave me?"
"You touched me without my consent," I said, my voice shaking with fury…and something else I couldn’t name. "That’s not the same as wanting."
"No," he agreed softly. "But this—" His fingers slid down, skimming the front of my tank top, just enough to graze the peak of my nipple through the thin fabric, making it tighten instantly, traitorously. "This is."
I sucked in a breath, fists clenched at my sides, unable to will my body into stillness. The sensation flooded me…sharp, humiliating, and dizzyingly hot.
"Stop," I whispered, but the word sounded weak even to my own ears.
He didn’t. He dragged his knuckles down my stomach, featherlight, letting the anticipation wind tighter and tighter. His touch wasn’t rough, wasn’t possessive. It was worse. It was reverent. Like he was mapping something that belonged to him.
"Your body wants me," he murmured. "It’s begging. You can feel it, can’t you? The ache, the heat. The way you tremble when I get close."
His hand slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing over bare skin, teasing just above the waistband of my leggings. Not touching where I burned—but close enough that I felt every millimeter of distance.
I closed my eyes, willing the sensation away. But all I could feel was him.
"You hate me," he said, his breath warm against my throat. "Say it."
"I hate you," I whispered.
"But your pussy’s soaked for me. Isn’t it?"
My breath hitched violently. My whole body went tight.
He laughed softly, a sound full of dark satisfaction. "You’re so fucking wet. I cansmellit. Want to pretend it’s fear? Fine. Lie to me all you want. But don’t lie to yourself."
His hand moved again, lower now, sliding over the front of my leggings—slow, steady pressure that made me gasp. My hips arched before I could stop them.
He exhaled like that was the answer he’d been waiting for.
"You’re going to break before I even fuck you," he said, voice dark and certain. "And I’m going to enjoy every second of it."
His hand stroked once more between my thighs, firm and slow, and my knees buckled. He caught me before I hit the floor, holding me up with maddening ease, mouth at my ear.
"You don’t have to admit it yet. Just feel it."
And I did.
God help me—I did.
He pressed his mouth to my neck, not kissing, just breathing, letting the heat of his body seep into mine. His hand slid between my trembling legs, not forcing, not rushing—just letting his knuckles graze the inside of my thigh, deliberate and unbearably slow. The tension between my legs pulsed with every breath, my skin hypersensitive, my mind splintering between the need to run and the instinct to lean in.
He chuckled against my throat, a low, decadent sound. "You were so soft when you came on my fingers. So sweet. You moaned my name like a prayer, and now you’re pretending you didn’t love it."
I tried to twist away, but his hand flattened against my lower belly, holding me there, his palm heavy and possessive.
"You’re going to remember every second soon. Every pulse, every breath, every way you begged without even knowing you were doing it. But for now... we can take our time."
His fingers dipped lower, just brushing the heat at the center of me through the thin cotton. I bit my lip, hard, to stop the sound that tried to escape.
"Still fighting it," he whispered, dragging his mouth along the edge of my jaw. "Even when you’re soaked and trembling."
His fingers pressed just slightly more firmly, and my head fell back with a soft gasp I couldn’t contain.
