“But tonight,” he continued, his voice softening into something more dangerous, “I want to see what happens when you give without being pushed. When you follow without the threat.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingered there. “I want surrender, Grace. Not resistance. Not bargaining. Just… you. Open. Willing. Bare.”
My throat tightened. “You think I’m just going to hand that over?”
He smiled—slow, knowing. “No. I think you’ll make me earn it. But I also think you want to see what I’ll do when you do.”
He stepped back slightly. Not retreating. Just… waiting.
“You don’t trust easy,” he said. “But I don’t need easy. I just need real.”
And somehow, that was more dangerous than anything he’d done before.
I didn’t answer him right away.
Because this wasn’t how Rafe operated. He didn’t linger in the doorway offering invitations. He didn’t ask for trust. He didn’t play at softness or make room for hesitation. He took—ruthlessly, expertly—until I was left gasping, unsure whether I wanted to claw at him or cling to him. But now, he was standing still, giving me time. Letting me choose.
And somehow, that made him even more dangerous.
“This is different,” I said, finally, the words thinner than I meant them to be.
He nodded once. “It is.”
“Why?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I’ve already bent you with pressure. Now I want to see what happens when you bend on your own.”
I felt something pull tight in my chest. “What are you trying to prove?”
“That I can make you give me everything,” he said, quiet but certain. “Not because you’re scared. Not because you’re out of options. Because you want to. Because part of you already does.”
There was no heat in his tone, no arrogance. Just that same lethal patience. Like he already knew the outcome and was simply letting me catch up.
“And if I say no?” I asked, lifting my chin like it could make a difference.
His mouth curved, slow and razor-sharp. “Then I pour us a drink. I sit across the room and let you pretend you’re not already wet for me. I let you pretend you don’t wonder what it would feel like to give in without a fight.”
My breath hitched.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him, could smell the clean spice of his skin beneath the candlelight. He didn’t reach for me. Didn’t touch. Just looked.
“But if you say yes,” he said, voice low and lethal, “then I show you what it feels like to be unraveled slowly. Worshipped like a secret. Fucked like a prayer.”
My pulse kicked hard.
“You want me to surrender,” I said. “Completely.”
He nodded. “For one night. One choice. No bargains. No pushing. You give yourself to me—and I make you forget you ever needed control to feel safe.”
It shouldn’t have turned me on. But it did. That calm, calculated authority. The certainty. The way he didn’t ask for trust—he simply built a room around me that made it impossible to give it to anyone else.
The silence thickened between us, stretching like tension across a wire. He didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just waited.
And when I finally spoke, my voice didn’t shake.
“All right.”
Something changed behind his eyes. Satisfaction, yes—but something darker too. Possession. Hunger held tight on a leash.
