She turned, her legs still shaking beneath her, the aftershock of what he'd done humming through her thighs. The dust motes caught the low sun, spinning lazy and indifferent. He stood a few feet away, still catching his breath, his dark eyes fixed on her with that familiar, possessive edge. But something had changed inside her chest. A cold, quiet power unfurled like a blade sliding from its sheath.
She stepped toward him. He didn't move, didn't blink. Just watched her close the distance, his hands loose at his sides. The air between them thickened, heavy with unspent heat. She saw his throat move as he swallowed, and she wanted to feel it under her palm.
Her hands met his chest. He went still. She pressed, slow and deliberate, and he let her push him back until his hips hit the edge of the teacher's desk. The wood creaked. His hands found the edge, gripping it, and his surprise flickered through his dark eyes like a nearly extinguished match.
"What are you—" he started, his voice lower than she'd ever heard it, almost hesitant.
She raised her hand and wrapped her fingers around his throat. Not tight. Just resting there, feeling the pulse jump against her palm. His breath stopped. His jaw tightened, but he didn't push her away. Didn't speak. Waited.
She let her thumb press into the hollow beneath his Adam's apple. A tremor ran through him. She felt it clear to her bones, and a warmth spread through her stomach. She'd never held anyone like this. Never felt the power of being the one who could squeeze. Who could stop a breath.
"You think you're the only one who can take?" she asked, her voice even, almost quiet, but it cut through the silence like a bell. She watched the words land in his eyes. Something shifted there—the predator realizing he was being watched from the shadows.
He didn't answer. Just stared at her, his chest rising and falling faster now. His pulse drummed under her fingers. She let her thumb trace a slow arc across his skin, feeling the stubble grit against her flesh.
The smile spread across her face slow and deliberate, like honey spilling, warm and dangerous. It was his smirk, his weapon, polished by months of holding court in hallways and behind lockers. She wore it now, felt it curve her lips, and she knew he saw himself in her.
"How does it feel?" she breathed. The air from her mouth touched his lips. He didn't close his eyes. Just watched her, a raw, unguarded hunger rising in his gaze, but now it was her prey, not the other way around.
His hands came up, but not to push her off. They landed on her hips, fingers curling into the fabric of her skirt, steadying himself. Or anchoring her. She didn't know which, and she didn't care. She had his throat. That was enough.
"Mannat." Her name from his mouth, stripped of arrogance, stripped of the cold dominance he'd worn like armor. Just a word. A question. A plea she hadn't asked for.
She loosened her grip just enough to feel his breath return. He didn't expand his chest, though. Held himself still, waiting for her next move.
"I want to see you," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Not the boy who owns every room. You. The one who just came inside me with his hands shaking."
His breath caught. She felt the vibration under her fingers. He said nothing, and the silence was louder than any confession.
She let her hand slide from his throat, trailing down his chest, feeling the heat of him through his button-down shirt. His heart hammered against her palm. She let her hand rest over it, pressing once.
Then she stepped back. The space between them filled with dust and light and everything unsaid. He remained against the desk, hands still gripping the edge, his chest bare, his jeans undone, his dark eyes locked on hers with the weight of a man who'd just been handed a mirror.
The smile stayed on her face. His weapon. Hers now.