I stood and pulled him up, walking him back to the couch like I was calling the shots. He sat, spreading his legs slightly, arms resting on the couch back—casual, but the way he watched me said otherwise. Predatory. Waiting.
I stepped between his knees and undid my blouse one button at a time, watching him watch me. His gaze was locked, jaw tight, hands twitching like it took effort not to grab me.
“You can touch,” I said. “If you behave.”
“Grace,” he said, voice gone rougher now. “You think you’re in control. But all I’m doing is waiting for you to give up pretending.”
I ignored him. Took his hands and placed them on my body, dragging them over the curves I wanted him to feel, to crave. His grip tightened, but he held still. Barely.
“Tell me the truth,” I said, letting his fingers skate over the lace covering my breasts. “Tell me what you think about when I’m not there.”
His jaw clenched. “I think about how easily I could break you.” His eyes lifted to mine, burning. “And how much you’d like it.”
His hands traced the curves of my thighs, my hips, my waist—each pass a blend of reverence and possession. When his fingers brushed the lace between my legs, finding me soaked and aching, we both groaned.
"Grace," he murmured, his voice rough with the effort of holding back. "Tell me what you want. Tell me how to please you."
I guided his hand beneath the lace, guiding his fingers exactly where I needed them. "Like this."
He followed my rhythm, picking it up fast. His touch was sure, practiced, devastating. Every stroke was designed to unmake me.
But I wasn’t done leading.
I took his free hand and brought it gently to the column of my throat, resting it there—light pressure, a silent instruction.
His gaze snapped to mine. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His fingers flexed at my throat, firm but careful, control crackling through the restraint.
"Keep going," I whispered. “I want it rough.”
He did. His thumb circled just right, his other hand anchoring me by the throat as my body began to shake.
“Look at me,” he said, voice low and hard. “I want to see every second of you coming apart.”
I met his gaze and held it, even as my body started to tremble around his fingers. His hand at my throat grounded me, held me right on the knife's edge of surrender.
"Rafe—" I gasped, breath caught, pleasure coiling tight and hot.
"Let go," he growled. "Show me."
I shattered, a broken sound ripping from my throat as I came against his hand, trembling, gasping, clinging to his shoulders as everything inside me unraveled.
He held me through it, murmuring quiet praise against my ear, one hand still steady at my throat—gentle now, grounding, almost tender.
When I came back to myself, I found him watching me with something raw in his eyes. Hunger, yes. But reverence too. Likehe’d just witnessed a sacred thing and hadn’t yet decided what it meant.
"That was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
I should have felt exposed, vulnerable, ashamed of my surrender. Instead, I felt... powerful. Seen. Valued in a way that had nothing to do with my name or my family or what I could provide.
"Your turn," I whispered, reaching for the fastening of his pants.
He caught my hand, surprising me. "You don't have to. This wasn't about?—"
"I want to," I interrupted, meeting his gaze steadily. "Not because of our bargain. Not because I owe you. Because I want to."
The distinction seemed to matter to him. He searched my face for a moment, then nodded, releasing my hand. I undid his pants, helping him slide them off along with his underwear, revealing him fully to my gaze.
He was beautiful in the firelight—all lean muscle and warm skin, his arousal evident in the hardness that jutted proudly from the nest of dark hair at his groin. I explored him with curious hands, learning the texture of him, the weight, the heat, the places that made his breath catch and his muscles tense.
