"So are you," she shoots back, arms crossed, that damned chin of hers tilted in stubborn defiance.
Her bare legs emerge from the hem of my shirt like an invitation and a dare—smooth, flushed, and so fucking tempting I have to lock my fists at my sides. Every instinct screams to claim what's mine, to rip away the illusion of distance and show her exactly who she belongs to. Not just because she’s wearing my shirt, but because that shirt clings to her in all the right places, marking her in a way that makes my restraint feel like punishment.
I step forward, slow and measured, the floor creaking faintly beneath my boots. The air between us hums like a live wire. Her breath stutters, nostrils flaring, and I catch the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes—quickly masked, but not before I see it. Her spine stiffens as if bracing for something she’s not sure she wants to stop. I note every change in her expression, the defiance that doesn’t quite eclipse the awareness.
She’s holding her breath now, waiting. Watching. And I want her to feel it—that she’s not the one in control anymore; letting the weight of my presence fill the space between us. Her eyes widen just a fraction, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t back down.
Good. I don’t want a compliant woman. I want her.
"I gave you rules. You broke them."
She huffs, sarcasm dripping from her lips. "What are you going to do? Ground me? Take away my phone? Oh wait, you already did that."
My mouth curls at the edge, but it isn’t humor that twists through me. It's need. It's the tightening vise of control I've held onto for too long.
"No more games, Caryn. The next time you disobey me, I won’t stop at warnings. I’ll take what’s already mine, and I’ll make sure you remember who you challenged every time you try to sit down."
She turns like she’s going to retreat down the hallway, but there's no hallway. I’m already moving. Two strides and I’m on her, grabbing her wrist and spinning her into the wall. Her back hits the log paneling with a soft thud. She gasps, not in pain, but shock. The air between us sparks, volatile and alive.
"Let me go," she breathes, but her body betrays her—hips arching, thighs pressing together. I see it. I feel it. Her pulse beats like a war drum beneath the hand I press to her throat.
"Say it like you mean it."
Her eyes flare. "I mean it."
But her pupils are blown wide, lips parted, breath shallow—each breath dragging heat through her lungs. She’s drowning, not in fear, but in something more volatile. I feel it rolling off her in waves: dark curiosity, the aching pull of desire laced with denial, the sharp sting of need she's too proud to name. It's there in the tremble of her thighs, the faint quiver in her lips, the way her chest rises like she's gasping against the truth.
She knows this is dangerous. And God help us both if I’m not exactly what she wants.
"You don’t get to lie to me, Caryn. Not when your skin’s burning and your breath stutters every time I get close. Not when the way you move tells me everything your pride won’t let you admit. Not when your body’s betraying you with every flushed inch."
My hand slides down the length of her side, catching the hem of my shirt bunched around her hips. I curl my fingers there,feeling the tension in her abdomen, the heat of her skin. The soft fabric does nothing to shield the shiver that moves through her when I touch her like that.
I seize her wrists in my other hand and drive them above her head, pressing them hard against the wall until her body stills under mine, breath shuddering from parted lips. She struggles, testing the restraint, but I don’t let her go. Not yet. Not until she admits what we both already know.
"You’re not scared of me. Not really. You’re scared of what you feel with me—and there’s a part of me that wants you to be. Not because you believe I’ll hurt you, but because there's a sliver of doubt. That flicker of fear in your eyes fans a flame I’ve spent years trying to leash. That spark makes the shadows in me stir and stretch, awakens the side of me that doesn’t want gentle. That doesn’t want safe. It wants raw, primal, and that fear? It flavors your surrender like spice in blood—makes it sweeter, darker."
I lean in, letting my breath tickle her lips. "I crave the sound you’ll make when your pride crumbles and you realize submission was inevitable. The exact second your gaze fractures—when it turns from fury to something darker, something needier. You don't want comfort. You want to teeter on the razor’s edge, dancing with the danger you swore you could resist. You want to fall—and there's a part of me that wants to watch you plunge, just to see if you'll beg me to catch you, or curse me as you shatter."
She glares. "That’s bullshit."
I lean in, lips running the tip of my tongue around the outer shell of her ear. "Then tell me to stop. Not the way your head wants it. Say it from your gut. Let your body tell mine."
She goes silent. Rigid. I wait.
Nothing.
I chuckle. "That's what I thought." I kiss her neck—not soft. Possessive. Claiming. Her breath catches as her hips grind against mine.
She curses, "Fuck you."
“That’s not how it works, sweetheart. I take. You yield. That’s the truth you can’t outrun.”
I pull her away from the wall just enough to pivot, carrying her across the room until I drop her onto the couch. She scrambles upright, ready to fight, but I follow her down, bracing my arms on either side of her body, caging her in without touching.
"You want control? Take it," I whisper. "Push me off. Tell me to stop."
She doesn't move.
