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I stand there. Bare and burning. Hating myself for the tears stinging behind my eyes.
I shouldn’t feel exposed. I’ve been naked with a guy before.
But not like this.
Never like this. Never with a man like him. One who sees so much. Too much. One who intends to lay me bare with scalpel-sharp purpose that will leave me bleeding and thankful.
Just like you wanted.
I ignore the insidious whisper as he walks to me slowly, eating the space between us.
Dark eyes coast over me, linger here and there but there’s zero reaction to my naked body.
His hand lifts—and I flinch. But he only brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re not a victim, Little Dahlia. You came looking for this.”
The reminder, so close to that whisper, makes me want to slap him. Scream at him. Break his jaw. But my knees weaken instead. Floored by a truth I don’t want to admit yet. Maybe never.
He takes my hand—warm touch, capable and powerful—and leads me to the bed. When I hesitate, he tugs me harder—like he’s daring me to pretend I don’t want it.
The sheets are soft. Cool. I lie down on my back. Heart slamming and nipples erect. Skin prickling with awareness.
He stands at the foot of the bed and watches, obsidian eyes glinting. Not so cold anymore. Then—he climbs in.
Over me. Caging me in.
His voice is a whisper at my ear. “I know what you crave. I read it between your lines the first night you logged on.”
He brushes his fingers down my chest, ghosting over one breast, making me arch against my will. I shake my head.
He presses on, undaunted. “You want to give up control—but only to someone who cantrulytake it.”
I try to turn my head. He captures my jaw, firm but not painful.
“You need someone stronger than your rage,” he whispers. “Let me be that.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
But… sweet heaven… my legs fall open. Just slightly. Of their own damned volition. Betrayal and permission in one fucking little move.
And he smiles, like a king granted the keys to his favorite ruin.
He touches me. Just his fingers, slow and confident, dance down my body, leaving a trail of goosebumps and alarm in their wake. Almost clinically, they slide between my thighs. I gasp and try not to, but he hears it.
He keeps his eyes on mine the whole time.
“You’ll learn,” he says softly. “How to beg. How to break. And how it feels to be wanted… even when you’re destroyed.”
Up and down my slit. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. But he doesn’t push inside me. He doesn’t take or conquer like I thought he would.
Instead—he withdraws.
And for a moment, I’m left wide open, bare and trembling, with need hanging in the air like a blade that never drops.
His hand glides upward, skimming my inner thigh, then my waist, mapping my body with the reverence of a man cataloguing an imperfect, priceless artifact—like he’s searching for the exact point where I’ll crack, and not a second too soon.
“You hide behind righteous fire,” he murmurs, brushing the underside of my breast with the back of his fingers. “But I see the girl underneath. The one who hasn’t been touched the right way. The one who wants someone toknowherbefore they ruin her.”
My nipples harden under the cool air and the hotter weight of his stare.