Her hand still burned where his lips had pressed. She held it open, palm-up, watching the faint dampness catch the garage's fluorescent light — then closed her fingers around the ghost of it and looked down at him.
Elias knelt on the concrete, his jeans dark with oil stains where the grit had bitten through. His hands rested on her calves, thumbs tracing small circles against the silk of her robe, and he was staring up at her like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe. The silver chain at his throat caught the light. His jaw was tight.
"You're shaking," she said. Her voice came out low, steady.
"I know."
His hands slid higher, palms dragging over her knees, her thighs — slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of her through the fabric. His fingers trembled against her skin, the calluses catching on silk, and she felt the tremor travel up through her own body, settling somewhere deep in her chest. She didn't move. She didn't tell him to stop. She watched him watch her, and the weight of his gaze was heavier than any touch.
"You've thought about this," she said. Not a question.
His throat worked. "Every night since I took this job."
She let the silence stretch, let it fill the garage like exhaust fumes. A car passed on the street outside, headlights sweeping across the walls, and in the brief darkness she felt his hands tighten on her thighs — a reflexive grip, a man holding on to something he was terrified of losing.
She reached down and curled her fingers around his wrist. His pulse beat against her thumb, fast and uneven. She guided his hand higher, stopping just before the hem of her robe rode up, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of her upper thigh. He made a sound — low, broken, dragged from somewhere he couldn't hide — and she let that sound settle into her bones like warmth.
"I decide how far this goes," she said. Her thumb pressed into the tendon of his wrist. "You understand?"
His eyes never left hers. "Yes."
She held his gaze for three full breaths, feeling the power humming in her chest, the strange gravity of a man kneeling at her feet. Then she loosened her grip on his wrist, let her hand fall to her side, and watched him stay exactly where she'd left him — waiting, trembling, hers.
She leaned down, the silk of her robe brushing his chest, and took his chin between her thumb and forefinger. The stubble along his jaw scraped against her skin, rough and real, and she felt the tremor run through him at the contact. She tilted his face up, forcing his gaze higher—past her waist, past the hollow of her throat, until his dark eyes locked onto hers.
He didn't look away. His breath came shallow, his lips parted, and she saw the raw want in his face—undisguised, unguarded, like a man who'd forgotten how to hide. The garage light caught the silver chain at his throat, the rise and fall of his chest beneath the leather jacket, and she held him there, pinned by her grip and her silence.
"Look at me," she said. A command, soft as silk.
"I am." His voice scraped low, barely a whisper. "I haven't looked at anything else since I saw you."
The confession hit her like a hand to her chest. She kept her hold on his chin, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the muscle jump beneath her touch. The concrete bit into his knees, she knew—she could feel the cold radiating from the floor, the grit that had stained his jeans. He'd stayed there. He'd stayed the whole time she'd stood over him, waiting, trembling, hers. And now she had him exactly where she wanted him.
"You'll do what I say," she said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"You'll wait until I tell you."
His throat worked. "Yes." The word came out rougher this time, dragged from somewhere deep, and she felt the power of it settle in her bones like a heat she'd forgotten she could summon.
She released his chin, let her hand fall to his shoulder, and pressed down—just enough to feel the hard muscle beneath the leather. He didn't move. He stayed exactly where she'd placed him, his eyes never leaving hers, his breath rapid and uneven. She could feel the heat of him through his jacket, the tension coiled in his frame, the desperate restraint of a man holding himself back by a thread.
"Good," she said.
She let the word hang in the air between them, thick and charged, and watched his jaw tighten, his hands clench against the concrete. The garage was silent except for the distant hum of a car on the street and the sound of his breathing—ragged, uneven, hers. She didn't move. She wanted him to feel every second of this wait, every second of knowing she could stop at any moment, and she hadn't yet.
His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. A question. A plea. She didn't answer it. Not yet.
"Say it." Her voice cut through the garage, quiet and absolute. She didn't move her hand from his shoulder, but she felt the muscle beneath her palm tighten, felt him brace against the weight of the command.
His throat worked. The silver chain at his collar caught the light as he swallowed, and she watched his Adam's apple rise and fall. He stared up at her, his dark eyes searching her face for an exit she wasn't giving.
"Tell me what you want, Elias." She said his name deliberately, letting it hang between them like a dare.
His hands slid from her thighs to the concrete, palms flat against the grit, as if grounding himself. A car passed outside, headlights sweeping across the wall behind him, and in the brief darkness she heard him exhale—slow, uneven, a man surrendering to something he couldn't outrun.
"I want to taste you." The words came out raw, scraped from somewhere deep. He didn't look away. "I want my mouth on your skin. I want to feel you come apart under my hands. I want—" He stopped, his jaw clenching. A muscle feathered along his cheekbone.
"Go on."
He shook his head, a tiny motion, like he couldn't believe he was saying it. "I want to make you forget every other man who ever touched you. I want to be the only thing you think about when you close your eyes." His voice dropped to a whisper, rough and broken. "I want to worship you until you can't remember your own name."
The confession hit her like heat rising from asphalt. She felt it settle in her chest, expand through her ribs, warm and heavy and real. Her hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the short hair at his nape. He didn't pull away. He leaned into her touch, a small, involuntary motion, like a man starved for contact.
She tugged his head back gently, exposing his throat, and watched his pulse flutter beneath the skin. "Good," she said. "That's what I wanted to hear."
She held him there, his face tilted up, his lips parted, his breath ragged and uneven. The concrete was cold against his knees. The smell of gasoline and her perfume tangled in the stale air. And he stayed exactly where she'd put him, waiting, trembling, his eyes never leaving hers.