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“That’s not what I meant.”

She doesn’t look away.“You did a terrible job tying me up.I figured that was an invitation.”

“It wasn’t.”

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth.“Fine.My boyfriend is old.Seeing you work—seeing yousweat—well, it gave me the motivation I needed to get out of that room.”

“And?”

“And I guess I didn’t know it until now, but murder really gets me off.”

The sentence hangs in the room like smoke—harmless if you don’t breathe too deep.

I breathe anyway.

She walks past me, moves as though the floor’s hers—like I’m the one borrowing space.A woman used to playing defense and tired of pretending it isn’t offense in drag.I don’t stop her.Not until she’s close enough to graze.

I take her wrist.

Not rough.Not sweet.

Just the kind of grip that says:don’t run, don’t beg—just stay right there.

Thumb pressed to the inside, where the skin thins and the truth lives.

Her pulse flutters once.

And mine goes still, like it’s waiting for the safe word she won’t say.

She looks down at my hand, then up at my face as though she’s trying to decide if I’m about to fuck her or kill her.

Then she tips her chin like:Well?

I pull her in.Pin her between the counter and my body.She doesn’t tense.Doesn’t stop me.Just watches me as if she’s cataloging this, too—what I do when I stop using restraint.

The kiss is hard.Messy.Intentional.

No build-up.No ask.

My hands find her hips, her waist, her jaw.

My fingers move like we’re skipping steps we already lived through.

As though I’ve already paid for this and she’s just checking the receipt.

She presses back.Opens her mouth like a dare.

Her hands find my shirt, then my skin, then lower.

It’s not foreplay.It’s fallout.

I shove everything off the counter.Metal, glass, it doesn’t matter.

She’s on it a second later, thighs spreading without ceremony.

She yanks me closer.Bites down on a curse.

I’m already there.Already hard.Already past the point of talking.