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And he knows it. He watches my face, not like he's trying to break me, but like he's savoring every micro-expression, every small surrender.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice rough with restraint. "The way you grind on me... you don't even know what you're doing to me, do you?"

My fingers curl against his shoulders, searching for balance, for control that keeps slipping further away. There's none to be found here—just him, just heat, just this unbearable rhythm that makes my legs tremble and my body lean into an ache I'm trying desperately not to chase.

His hand slides up my spine, gradual and steady, until it cradles the back of my neck in a grip that's both possessive and tender.

"You were made to move like this," he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. "Slow. Needy. Desperate without saying it."

I grit my teeth against the truth of his words, but I don't stop. I can't. I'm no longer in the right mind to.

But neither does he.

He guides me harder now—pulling me down with each roll of my hips, letting my clit drag over the ridge of his cock through the fabric. The silk of my dress bunches higher with every breath, exposing more skin to his hungry gaze.

"You're soaked already," he growls, voice deepening with arousal. "I can feel it through my fucking pants."

My breath hitches as embarrassment and desire war inside me.

"You're making a mess." He presses a kiss to my jaw—hot, slow, open-mouthed—and I feel my resolve crumbling. "You gonna come just from this, little thief?" he whispers against my skin.

I glare at him, unwilling to admit how close I already am.

His smile curves dark against my skin, knowing and triumphant. "Thought so."

Just as his hands tighten, pulling me down harder against him, the phone rings. It's loud, sharp, intrusive—slicing through the haze between us.

I stay perfectly still. So does he.

The phone rings again, more insistent this time.

Beckett's jaw ticks, and for a moment, I think he might ignore it—might shove it off the counter, fuck me right here and dare the rest of the world to come knocking.

But he doesn't. His grip loosens, and he exhales through his nose, slow and tight. He leans just enough to glance at the screen, and I catch the name flashing there. Sebastian.

Something shifts between us. Subtle, but immediate. The atmosphere changes like a door slamming shut.

His hands leave my hips. One presses to my lower back, guiding me off his lap—not harshly or coldly, just... deliberately. Like the moment's over. Like something heavier has landed in the room.

"Go wait in the bedroom," he says, voice quieter now, all business. "And close the door."

I blink at the sudden shift. "Is everything?—"

"Now, Luna." The use of my name stops me, carries weight I can't ignore.

I stand, adjusting the hem of my dress with trembling fingers, and walk without arguing. Not because I'm afraid, but because I can feel the change in the air—the sudden tension coiling in his shoulders, the way his eyes have gone distant and cold.

I leave him there, pacing toward the hallway without looking back. Behind me, he answers the call with a curt, "Yeah."

Through the walls, I catch fragments of the conversation—his tone shifting deeper, edged with something darker than I've heard before.

"When?" A pause. "They're sure?" Another pause. "...wasn't on the list." His voice drops even lower. "...fuck."

The bedroom door closes behind me, and I exhale slowly, leaning against it as my heart rate normalizes.

I don't know what just happened. But I know one thing for certain—Beckett Sinclair doesn't scare easily.

That silence? That stillness? That's not peace. That's the moment right before the storm hits. And I have a feeling I might be at the center of it.