Elena could only stare. Her mind, usually so quick to catalogue and analyze, was a blank, white static. The man who had orchestrated her ruin, who had coldly calculated her brother’s debt as a trap, was telling her he needed her. Not her work experience or body as payment. Just her. Here.
This had to be a tactic. It had to be. He’d felt her stop breathing in his arms—and now he was using it and turning something raw and terrifying into leverage.
Her lips, still tender from his kiss, parted. No sound came out.
Liam’s blue eyes searched her face, reading the storm in her green ones. He didn’t look away. He didn’t soften the statement or take it back. He let it stand, raw and exposed, between them. The predator was standing still, long enough to be seen—and she didn’t know if that made him more dangerous.
“You don’t believe me,” he said. His voice was that low baritone, but it lacked its usual polished finish. It was rough, scraped raw.
“I don’t know what to believe.” The words were a whisper, torn from her. “You trade in lies, Liam. You build traps. Why would this be any different?”
He flinched. A minute tightening around his eyes, a slight recoil of his head. It was the most genuine reaction she’d ever seen from him—uncalculated, instantaneous pain. It terrified her more than his anger ever could.
“Then let me give you another offer,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. His thumbs began to move, slow sweeps across her skin. “Let me prove it,” he said quietly.
“Follow every command until we leave the island tomorrow. When we return to the manor, it ends.”
“Wha— What would be my win from the deal?” She asked, not convinced of allowing things to go further.
“You may ask me three questions. I cannot lie and must answer them. You do not have to ask them now, but anytime going forward through the contract.
Her breath hitched. That was the madness of it. A part of her wanted to. To be able to demand the questions from him.
She took a deliberate step back. The space between them was only two feet, but it felt like a canyon she’d just blown open with dynamite. “I can’t do this.”
Liam’s hands, which had been framing her face, fell to his sides. He didn’t move to close the distance. “Can’t do what?”
“This… bargain. This game where you show me a glimpse of something real just to pull me deeper into the web.” Her voice gained strength, edged with the panic of someone who’d almost drowned twice in one day. “It’s too dangerous to believe you.”
“I’m not asking you to believe me,” he said, his voice returning to that chilling, even calm. The raw scrape was gone, sealed over. “I’m offering you a transaction. My commands for your questions. Truth for obedience. That’s a language we understand. It has terms. It has limits.”
“Nothing with you has limits.”
“This does.” He took one step forward, erasing half the distance she’d created. The fading sun caught the blue of his eyes, turning them to chips of ice. “Midday tomorrow. The boat leaves. The bargain expires when we return to the manor. You have my word.”
Elena let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Your word.”
“It’s the only currency I’ve never devalued. If I ever lie. Your entire contract is void.” He held her gaze, unblinking. “You want to know why I targeted your brother? Ask. You want to know what I feel when you look at me like I’m a monster? Ask. You’ll have the key to every lock you’ve been rattling since the day you walked into my office.”
The offer hung in the salt-thick air, more intoxicating than the tropical flowers scenting the twilight. Power. Real, tangible power. Not physical, but intellectual. The one kind she’d always trusted. He was handing her a knife and telling her she could sheath it in his chest, and he would stand there and take it.
Her mind raced, calculating. If he lied in his answers, the bargain was void. She could catch him in it. And if he told the truth… the cold, awful truth of his design… then she would know. The not-knowing was a cage. The knowing, however terrible, was a the key. And the key could be turned to open her cage.
“What are the commands?” she asked, her voice low.
A faint, almost imperceptible tension left his shoulders. “You’ll find out when I give them.”
“And if I refuse one?”
“Then the bargain is broken. You forfeit your questions. We return to the original terms of your employment.” His mouth was a severe line. “Your brother’s debt. Your mind. Your body. My schedule.”
There it was. The steel beneath the velvet. The original snare, still set, still waiting. This was a side path, but the cliff was still there. She was choosing to walk his narrow ledge for a day in exchange for a map of the cliff’s edge.
Elena looked past him, at the darkening sea. The water that had almost taken her. She thought of his hands pounding on her chest, his breath in her mouth, the desperate, broken sound he’d made when she’d coughed back to life. That hadn’t felt like a calculation. That had felt like a man coming apart.
She looked back at him. He was utterly still, watching her think. Predatory patience. She knew, with a clarity that made her chest tighten—this wasn’t how you escaped a trap. This was how you walked further into it.
“Okay,” she said. The word sounds unsure.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” she said. The word didn’t tremble this time. “I accept your offer… Sir.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. The waves slapped the jetty. A bird cried out in the jungle behind the beach house. Then he gave a single, slow nod. “Good.”
He turned and walked out of the room, the muscles in his back tense, not looking back. She accepted his deal. Now, she must follow any command.
Elena stood for a heartbeat longer, the last of the day’s heat rising through the soles of her feet. Then she turned and followed the dark shape of him out the door. Something settled into place—tight, inescapable… like a collar around her neck.
As she followed Liam into the main living area. The room was dominated by a wall of glass overlooking the black cove, now reflecting the deep indigo of twilight. The fireplace crackled with a low fire on a hearth of sea-smoothed stone. He stopped in the center of the room, the firelight painting the sharp planes of his face in gold and shadow.
“Kneel,” he said.
The word wasn’t loud. A test of the bargain she’d just struck.
Elena’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her mind, her defiant, calculating mind, screamed. This was the first command. A demand for physical submission, symbolic and profound. To kneel was to acknowledge his authority in the most primitive way. It was a position of surrender, of supplication.
She looked at him. His expression was unreadable, the earlier vulnerability sealed away behind a mask of expectation. He was waiting. He would wait all night. And with every second that passed, the alternative—the original debt, the total ownership of her body and mind—grew heavier.
Her breath shuddered out. She took one step forward, closing the final distance. The rug under her feet was a rough, natural fiber. She lowered herself slowly—deliberately—refusing to rush the moment for him. If she was going to kneel, it would be on her terms, at her pace. Her knees met the floor. She held his gaze. If he wanted submission, he could watch her choose it. The position felt alien, exposing. She kept her back straight, her chin up, her green eyes locked on his. It was a kneeling with defiance in its spine.
Liam looked down at her. The firelight danced in his blue eyes. He didn’t smile. He didn’t gloat. He simply absorbed the sight of her, kneeling before him, as if committing the image to memory.
“Good,” he said, the single syllable a caress of approval that somehow burned worse than a reprimand.
**
He began to circle her, like a predator viewing its trapped prey. The shape of his soft muscles glowed from the fireplace’s light. His chest showed its strength, but still its softness, which looked so comforting enough to embrace. The stubble of his chin, the black hair a mess from before. His eyes, the light sparking off his unsteady view. Locked on her.
She felt his gaze like a physical touch, tracing the line of her shoulders, the curve of her back, the way her hands rested, clenched, on her thighs. The cotton of his trousers brushed her bare arm as he passed behind her. She flinched.
“You’re trembling,” he observed, his voice coming from over her shoulder.
“I’m cold,” she lied, the words tight.
“No, you’re not.” He completed his circle, standing before her again. He reached down, his fingers brushing the wave of brown hair that fell over her shoulder. He didn’t grip it. He just let the strands slide through his fingertips. “You’re afraid of what this means, because a part of you wants it. The simplicity of it. No more decisions. Just obedience.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“I know better than you think. I know the pulse in your throat is hammering. I know your skin is flushed. Fear and desire use the same pathways, Elena. The body rarely lies.” His hand left her hair and came to rest under her chin, tilting her face up further. “Look at me.”
She was already looking, but now it was a command. Her gaze locked with his. Now she could see all of the fire reflected there, a trapped inferno.
**
“This is the first command,” he said softly. “You will remain kneeling until I tell you to rise. You will keep your eyes on me. You will not speak unless I ask you a direct question or permit you. Do you understand?”
Every word was a brick, building a wall around her will. She gave a single, sharp nod.
His thumb stroked the line of her jaw. The touch was shockingly gentle. “Use your words.”
“I understand,” she whispered.
“Good girl.” The words landed—and she hated how her body answered them. A small warmth growing inside. Not weakness. Conditioning, she told herself. Something she could learn. Something she could control.
He didn’t move away. He stood, a dark pillar before her, his hand soft and still cradling her jaw. The pad of his thumb moved back and forth, a hypnotic rhythm on her skin. The heat from the fire was on her right side. The heat from his body was on her front. She was caught between them, beginning to sweat.
Minutes passed. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the distant, rhythmic sigh of the sea. Her knees began to ache against the hard floor. The muscles in her thighs protested. She didn’t shift. She didn’t look away. Her world narrowed to the blue of his eyes, the rough-soft sensation of his thumb, the heavy, growing pressure in the air between them.
He was studying her. Reading every micro-expression, every rapid breath. She felt like she was being dissected. Seen. More seen than she had ever been in her life. It felt like a complete violation.
“You can ask me one of your questions now, if you wish,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his hand into her bones. “The bargain is in effect. I will answer in full.”
Her mind, starved for control, leaped at the offer. But which question? The practical one about her brother? The cruel one about his design? Her throat worked. She remembered the conch shell, currently sitting on the nightstand, a silent testament to her near-death and his desperate rescue. She remembered the raw terror in his voice when he’d begged her to breathe.
“What happened to your family?” The words left her mouth before she could confirm that’s what she wanted to use the question for.
Liam’s thumb stilled against her jaw. His expression, that mask of unshakable control, didn’t so much change as dissolve. The blue eyes holding hers went distant, vacant, seeing something she couldn’t. The firelight caught a faint tremor in the muscle along his tightened jaw. For several heartbeats, he was simply gone, lost in a memory that stripped him bare.
Elena watched, kneeling, her own breath held. She saw pain, sharp and immediate. She saw a flash of anger so profound it darkened his features. Then, settling beneath it all, a sadness so deep it seemed to hollow him out from within. The confident pillar before her wavered.
“My parents were killed eight years ago,” he said. His voice was flat, stripped of its usual low command. It was given as a fact.
He removed his hand from her face as if her skin had burned him. He leaned back, breaking the intense eye contact he had demanded she maintain. He turned partially away, his profile etched in shadow against the wall of glass where the night sea churned.
The silence that followed was heavier than any command. The crackle of the fire was obscenely cheerful. Elena remained on her knees, the ache in them now a secondary, distant complaint. Her mind, always racing, stuttered to a halt. This wasn’t a tactic. This was a wound, ripped open by her question.
“How?” The word left her, a whisper. She broke his rule instantly, speaking without permission.
He didn’t chastise her. He didn’t even seem to hear her. He was staring out at the black water. “A car. On the coastal highway. It was rain-slick. They said it was an accident.” The flatness remained, but a new, icy precision entered his tone. “The other driver walked away with a broken wrist. The whole thing was quickly dismissed. The man had to be connected. The investigation was… too quick. The man's identity was never released. I don’t even know the son-of-a-bitch that did it.”
Elena’s stomach twisted. She thought of Alexander Stern’s warning, of Liam’s world of debts and manipulations. “You don’t believe it was an accident.”
This time, he looked at her. The pain and sadness were gone, burned away, leaving only the cold, familiar anger. It was more terrifying than his momentary fracture. “Do I look like a man who believes in coincidences, Elena?”
She had no answer. The question hung in the heated air. She had expected answers. Information she could use. Not this. Not something that felt like leverage over him in this way.
Liam stood up and moved, not toward her, but to the fireplace. He braced an arm against the mantel, his head bowed. The pose spoke of a fatigue that had nothing to do with sleep. “My father built everything from nothing. My mother… she collected shells on this beach. She was the only person who ever treated me like a normal kid.” He glanced back at her, a harsh pain showing in his eyes.
He pushed off the mantel to face her fully again. The mask was back, but it was cracked. She could see the fissures. “This house was hers. This island. It’s the only thing I kept exactly as it was. The only place I come to remember what it was like before the world became a series of transactions and calculated moves in the business world.”
Elena understood then, with a clarity that stole her breath. His fury at her accusation. The significance of her being here. It couldn’t just be a game. This place was a sacred memory, and he had brought her into it.
Elena’s defiance, her calculated suspicion, crumbled into ash. She was still on her knees, but the posture felt different now. Not just submission to his will, but an acknowledgment of the terrible gravity of the man before her.
Liam closed the distance between them. He didn’t touch her. He simply stood over her, the heat of his body enveloping her once more. “You may rise,” he said, the command quiet.
Her muscles protested, stiff and aching. She pushed herself up, her legs unsteady. She stood before him, her green eyes wide, searching his face. The space between them crackled with a new, unbearable tension—not just power, but a shared, painful knowledge.
“My second command,” he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth. “You will not speak of this around anyone else, unless I permit it. This memory is mine. You have been allowed to see it. That is the only part of it you get to keep.”
He waited. The fire popped. The sea sighed.
“I understand,” Elena said, her voice raw.
“Good.” His hand came up, but not to her face. His fingers traced the line of her throat, over the hammering pulse there, down to the collar of her soft pajama top. “Come forward. Hold still.”
Elena took one halting step, closing the small distance until the toes of her bare feet nearly touched his. The firelight painted his face in shifting gold and shadow. She held her breath, her body rigid, waiting.
His hands went to the hem of her soft, borrowed pajama top. She almost expected him to tear it. Instead, he gathered the fabric with a deliberate slowness, his knuckles brushing the skin of her stomach, and began to draw it upward. The cotton whispered over her ribs, over the swell of her breasts, catching for a moment on her raised arms before he guided it over her head and let it drop silently to the floor behind her.
The night air in the room was warm, but it hit her newly exposed skin like a shock. Her arms instinctively started to cross over her chest, a flinch of modesty she couldn’t suppress.
“Stop.” His voice was a low crack. “Lower your arm. Both of them. At your sides.”
Her muscles locked. Shame, hot and prickling, flooded her cheeks. She forced her arms down, letting them hang limp. She was naked from the waist up before him, in the firelight, with the black sea as their witness. Her long, wavy brown hair tumbled over her shoulders, a scant, inadequate curtain.
Liam’s gaze was clinical. He stepped closer, his blue eyes scanning, assessing. He reached out, and his hands, warm and dry, settled gently on her shoulders. He turned her slightly, guiding her so the firelight fell more fully across her front. His thumbs stroked the line of her collarbones, a motion that felt oddly soothing and deeply invasive all at once.
His attention was fixed on the center of her chest, along her sternum. A faint, discolored bloom of yellow and purple marred her skin there. The bruise left by the heel of his hand, by the desperate, rhythmic drive of his palms against her ribs to force the sea from her lungs.
He bent his head, his expression utterly focused. His fingers skimmed the air above the bruise, then descended with exquisite care. The pads of his fingers pressed, probing the edges, testing the give of the tissue beneath. His touch was firm, searching for damage, not pleasure. Elena flinched as he found a tender spot.
“Breathe in,” he commanded softly. “Deep. Then out.”
She obeyed, filling her lungs. The expansion caused a dull ache in the bruised muscle, but no sharp, stabbing pain. She exhaled in a shuddering rush.
His hands moved, tracing the line of her ribs beneath the soft underswell of her C-cup breasts. He palpated each one, his touch methodical, moving from the center out toward her sides. His knuckles brushed the sensitive side of her breast. Her nipple tightened, a traitorous, aching peak in the cool air. She was sure he noticed, yet he didn’t react.
He noticed everything. His eyes flicked up to hers for a split second, reading the shame and the unwanted response, before returning to his examination. He spent a long minute on her left side, where the worst of the impact would have been. His fingers pressed, released, pressed again.
Finally, he straightened. His hands slid from her ribs to rest lightly on her hips. “You’re not as harmed as I worried,” he said, his voice back to that low, factual baritone. The clinical detachment was returning, layer by layer. “No crepitus. No localized sharp pain when you breathe. The bruising looks to be superficial. Deep muscle, perhaps. No cracked ribs.”
A strange, weak relief washed through her. It was the relief of a clean diagnosis. “That’s good,” she whispered, breaking his rule of silence again, unable to stop herself.
He gave her a quick look. “I said no talking,” He reminded her. “One mark.”
She acknowledged the breach. His gaze was still on her chest, on the proof of his violence and his salvation. “It is,” he agreed to her statement, a distant note in his voice. “It’s much better than what the force of the compressions should have left. You’re…” He paused, his eyes lifting to meet hers. “Resilient.”
The word hung between them. The observation felt more than just a statement. It felt more intimate. She was resilient. She had to be to survive this world so far.
His hands, still resting on her hips, grew heavier. The clinical distance in his eyes began to smolder, shifting into something else. Desire. The inspection was over. The command fulfilled. What remained was the woman, half-undressed and breathing shakily in his hands, and the man who had just bared a piece of his own wreckage to her.
Her body, under the heavy weight of his hands on her hips, began to react before her mind could marshal a defense. A flush of heat spread upward from her core, a low, pulsing ache that had nothing to do with the bruise on her chest. Her breath hitched, catching in her throat as his thumbs began a slow, deliberate circle on the points of her hip bones.
“You may talk now.” Liam’s blue eyes held hers, watching the surrender play out across her face. “Tell me at any time if you wish for me to stop.”
His mouth brushed the shell of her ear, his voice a dark velvet whisper. "I'm going to put my hands on you, Elena. I'm going to touch every part of you.”
His thumbs ceased their circles on her hips. One hand slid around to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. The other rose, his fingers threading into the long, wavy brown hair at her nape. He held her there, not forcing, just possessing.
His lips found the pulse point beneath her jaw. Not a kiss. A slow, open-mouthed press of heat. He breathed her in, his nose tracing the line of her throat down to her shoulder. Elena’s head fell back of its own accord, a silent offering. A shudder wracked her slender frame.
His mouth was relentless. He mapped the slope of her shoulder with wet, dragging kisses. His teeth scraped lightly, making her gasp. His hand left her hair and joined the other at her back, then slid lower, palming the curve of her ass through the thin pajama pants. He kneaded the flesh there, pulling her tighter against the hard ridge of his cock straining against his own shorts.
The contact sent a bolt of pure, electric need straight to her core. Her pussy clenched, empty and aching. A soft, choked sound escaped her lips before she could swallow it.
Liam stilled. He lifted his head, his blue eyes meeting her wide green ones. "Was that a request for me to stop?"
She shook her head, frantic, her hair tumbling over his hands. No. It was not. She didn’t tell him to stop. Not because she couldn’t. Because she didn’t want to.
"I’m going to enjoy the sounds I pull from you." He bent again, his mouth capturing hers. This kiss took her like a conquest. His tongue swept in, claiming, tasting. He kissed her until her knees buckled, until she was clinging to his shoulders for balance, until the only thing in the world was the heat and the wet slide and the faint taste of salt and whiskey.
When he broke the kiss, they were both breathing hard. He looked down at her body, her C-cup breasts bare and heaving, her nipples hard, tight peaks in the firelight.
"These," he said, his voice rough. "Are mine now." His hands came up, but he didn't touch them. He held his palms a breath away, letting her feel the radiant heat. "Do you understand?"
She nodded.
He closed the distance. His hands were warm and slightly rough. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs sweeping over the stiff peaks in unison. A sharp gasp ripped from her. He did it again, slower, watching her face. Her eyelids fluttered. He squeezed, gently at first, then with more firmness, testing the weight, molding her flesh in his hands.
He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth.
Elena cried out, her fingers digging into his hair. The sensation was shocking, exquisite. His tongue was hot and wet, lashing the sensitive bud, then sucking deep. The pull seemed to connect directly to the ache building between her legs. Her hips jerked against him.
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention. His free hand continued to knead and pluck the wet nipple he’d left behind. She was panting, little whimpers escaping with each exhale. The fire crackled while the waves whispered outside.
When he finally released her breast with a wet pop, a string of saliva connected his lips to her glistening skin for a second before breaking. He straightened, his lips swollen, his eyes black with desire.
“To the bedroom. Now."
She stumbled back, her legs unsteady—not just from him, but from the sudden certainty of what that meant. Her pulse spiked. Now meant now.
No more space to think. No more pretending she hadn’t known this was coming.
She turned too quickly, nearly misstepping as she moved toward the master bedroom. The walk felt too long and not long enough at the same time. Every step gave her a second to stop—
And she didn’t take it.
She perched on the edge of the mattress, hands braced beside her, fingers pressing into the fabric like she needed something solid. Her breathing was already uneven.
You can still say something.
You can still slow this down.
The door behind her opened.
Too late.
She looked up as he crossed the room, her stomach tightening. Her body reacted first—heat, anticipation, that ache low in her belly—but her thoughts lagged, scrambling to catch up.
He reached for the tie of his shorts. Letting them drop.
Her eyes dropped—and this time, they stayed.
The sight of him hit her harder than she expected. Never before had she seen a cock fully before. Sure shed seen images before, but nothing enough to be real to this. Even her small glimpse in the shower didn’t compare to or give her the sight before him.
She didn’t just feel arousal. Something deeper. He looked different like this. More real. More dangerous in a way she couldn’t quite name.
Her pulse stumbled.
A flicker of nerves tightened low in her stomach, instinctive and immediate.
That’s going to—
She stopped the thought before it could fully form, but her body reacted anyway—her thighs tensing slightly, her breath catching in her chest. It wasn’t fear. But it wasn’t nothing either.
Her gaze traced him for a second longer than she meant to, curiosity slipping in despite herself, quiet and unguarded.
Then her eyes flicked back up to his face, like she needed to anchor herself again.
She swallowed, her lips parting as she might speak—but nothing came out.
She hesitated. It was small. Barely there. Just a fraction of a second where her body didn’t obey.
This is it. If you do this, there’s no going back.
Her arms trembled as she pushed herself up anyway. She was completely naked before him now, exposed in a way that made her chest tighten. The air felt different against her skin. Too cool. Too aware.
He saw everything. The flush on her skin. The way her inner thighs were already slick with her own arousal. The helpless, hungry tremor she could no longer control.
He placed a hand on her inner knee and pushed, widening her stance further. The vulnerability was overwhelming her mind. No longer able to think clearly, she squeezed her eyes shut to focus on the sensations. Her instinct was to close her legs— to cover herself.— but she didn’t.
He stood between her knees, and she felt the vulnerability hit her all at once, sharp and disorienting. Not just physical. Something deeper. Being seen like this. Known like this.
Don’t hide. Why can’t you look at him?
His hand touched her knee.
She flinched. Not away—just enough to betray the tension coiled under her skin.
"Look at me."
Her green eyes flew to his. They were focused, looking down at her. The look of admiration filled his eyes. He was pleased with her body. She could see how no part of herself displeased him.
He kept his hand on her knee, his thumb stroking the tender skin there. "I want to see you feel this." His other hand trailed up her thigh, along the smoothness of her skin, but didn't touch her where she burned for him. He traced the outer lips, a teasing, maddening circuit. "You are so wet for this. For me."
His finger finally, slowly, dipped into her slit. She arched off the bed with a silent, open-mouthed cry. He felt her, the hot, slick evidence of her need coating his finger. He slid it through her folds, gathering moisture, then brought it to his mouth. His eyes held hers as he tasted her. A low groan vibrated in his chest. "Perfect."
He returned his hand, this time with purpose. One blunt finger pressed at her entrance, then sank into her. The stretch was delicious, but not enough. She was tight, clenching around him, desperate for more. He began a slow, torturous rhythm, in and out, his palm heel rubbing against her clit with every stroke.
Elena's hands fisted in the blanket. Her back bowed. Pleasure coiled, tight and insistent, deep in her belly. She was panting, her breath coming in ragged hitches. She was close, so close, teetering on an edge she'd never known.
He stopped.
Her eyes flew open, wild with denial. A sob of frustration caught in her chest. She shook her head, pleading silently.
Liam withdrew his finger. He unfastened his trousers, freeing his cock. It was thick, flushed, and aching. He gripped himself, giving a slow stroke as he watched her watch him. The pre-cum beaded at the tip. Reaching into the nearby dresser, he pulls out a condom. Wrapping it along the shaft.
He positioned himself at her entrance—then stopped. Not hesitation. Control. But her body didn’t understand the difference.
The pressure alone—close, not yet there—sent a sharp awareness through her, stealing her breath. Her fingers tightened in the sheets, knuckles whitening as something instinctive flared inside her.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low, almost rough. “Still thinking you’re not choosing this.”
Wait—
Her hips shifted back a fraction before she could stop them.
Not enough to break the moment.
Just enough to betray the thought.
His grip tightened at her hip, steadying her—not forcing, but not letting her retreat either.
Her chest rose too fast. She couldn’t seem to slow it.
“This is—” she started, but the words faltered, dissolving before they could take shape.
She didn’t even know what she had been about to say.
Stop?
Wait?
Or just… give me a second?
“You still don’t understand,” he murmured, voice low, almost rough. “You're still thinking you’re not choosing this.”
Her eyes snapped to his, something raw flickering there.
“I—” Her voice caught. She swallowed, shaking her head slightly, more confusion than denial. “I don’t—”
She did want this.
That was the problem.
Her body made that clear in every shallow breath, every involuntary shift toward him—but her mind lagged behind, trying to keep pace, trying to understand how she had gotten here, how this moment had become real.
His thumb pressed slowly into her hip, grounding, deliberate.
“You’re still waiting for me to take the decision from you,” he said quietly.
Her stomach tightened.
Because part of her was.
It would be easier if he just—
if he didn’t stop, didn’t give her time to think, didn’t make her feel the weight of it—
Time stalled.
And in that silence, everything sharpened.
The warmth of him, so close.
The unfamiliar tension in her body.
Her breath hitched again, softer this time.
Her hand lifted—hesitant, uncertain—and for a second it hovered between them, like she didn’t know where to put it.
Push him away.
Or pull him closer.
Her fingers curled instead, catching lightly against his wrist.
Not stopping him.
But not quite urging him forward either.
“I’ve never…” The words barely formed, fragile, like admitting them made it more real.
Her gaze dropped for a second, then forced itself back up to his. There was heat there—but threaded through with nerves she couldn’t hide now.
A small shake of her head. “I don’t know if I’m—” Ready. The word wouldn’t come. It didn’t feel true.
Because she was—and she wasn’t. Her grip on his wrist tightened just slightly.
A choice. Unsteady. Imperfect. But hers.