He grips me, tight and sudden, and hauls me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. Like the conversation never even happened.
I yelp—part shock, part something else—and his pace is unrelenting, every step heavy with intent. Like I’m not a question he’s considering. But an answer he’s already chosen.
“Where are you taking me?” I snap, though the edge in my voice cracks beneath the pulse pounding in my throat.
Maybe he’s done playing nice. Maybe he’s taking me to lock me in, to cage the chaos I keep dragging out of him. Maybe this is how he plans on shutting the temptation away for good.
But he doesn’t.
He pushes openhisdoor—the room I just fled from—and strides inside like he owns every inch of the tension between us.
Then he drops me onto the bed. Not gently. Not roughly. Just deliberately. Like I belong here.
My breath catches.
Because no matter how fast I ran, I’ve somehow ended up right back at the epicentre—the place where every secret, every sin, waits just beneath the surface.
The mattress dips under my weight, the echo of impact still pulsing through me. I scramble upright, breath hitching, but he’s already there—standing over me, gaze dark, jaw clenched like he’s holding back something that wants out.
“I didn’t bring you back here to argue,” he says, voice low and rough at the edges.
He steps closer.
I should move. I want to move. But my limbs won’t cooperate—caught between fight and fascination.
“You think I haven’t noticed it?” he murmurs, removing the gloves to allow his fingers to brush along my jaw—barely there. “The way you look at me like you want to run… and stay.”
My heart stutters, and suddenly he’s on the bed with me, kneeling—solid, immovable, close enough to steal air from my lungs.
“I know you’re not her,” he says, voice raw with something dangerously close to reverence. “You’re not Kyla. And I don’t want you to be.”
His eyes hold mine, steady, like he’s trying to burn the truth into me.
“I want you, Nell.”
He presses closer, the air between us heavy with things neither of us should be feeling.
“And God help me… but Iwillhave you.”
And just like that, the tension shifts. From defiance to gravity. From resistance to something far harder to escape.
He reaches for my wrist—not to restrain, but to anchor. Holding me here in the moment. Waiting. Daring me to pull away. His hands are rough as they yank the joggers from my hips, laced panties slipping away with them. They land somewhere on the floor, discarded without care, because right now his focus is all-consuming.
He looks at me like he’s starving—and I’m the only thing that could ever satisfy him.
Before I can summon a breath, let alone a protest, he drops low, and the air shifts. There’s nothing gentle about the way he claims me with his tongue this time. It’s all edge and hunger, his mouth relentless, dragging involuntary sounds from my lips while I twist beneath him, torn between surrender and stubbornness.
His eyes never leave mine.
Watching. Daring. Undressing me even further—layer by layer—until there’s nothing left between us but heat and everything I swore I wouldn’t feel.
And God help me, I feel everything.
The first moan he pulls from me is guttural—torn from someplace primal I didn’t know I’d buried. The second is feral, jagged and unrestrained, echoing off the walls like a confession.
I stop fighting.
No more pushing him away. No more pretending I don’t want this.
