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I was sitting in his lap, my legs parted at his command, my dress falling open between them. I was bare underneath, flushed, already wet, and he hadn’t even touched me intimately yet. He was just looking at me like I was a meal he intended to take his time with.

His eyes were heavy, dark with focus, like he was cataloging my every reaction, every little flutter of my breath, every tiny shift in my muscles. Maybe like he analyzed his opponents in the ring, so he could anticipate their next move. I could feel it in the way his hand moved, not rushed, not greedy. Like he was studying me.

Like he had waited for that moment longer than I could have ever imagined.

And fuck… the way he touched me.

It wasn’t just sexual. It waspossessive.His hand skimmed up my inner thigh, then back down, then up again, tracing the path justshort of where I needed him the most. He was watching me fall apart one heartbeat at a time, and he was doing it on purpose.

I glanced up at him, desperate for something—permission, friction, anything—but he just watched me with that calm, unreadable expression. Like I was already unraveling exactly the way he wanted me to.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice wrecked and breathless.

One corner of his mouth lifted.

“Not yet,” he murmured.

Then his fingers brushed the slick heat between my thighs, finally, and Iwhimpered—an actual, honest-to-God whimper that flew free from my lips before I could bite it back.

His eyes flicked up at me, and they burned with heat and overwhelming satisfaction.

“You feel that?” he asked, his voice rumbling through my core, his thumb pressing gently against my clit in slow, maddening circles. “This is what surrender feels like, baby girl.”

I moaned, tilting my hips forward into his hand without thinking. Everything inside me was tight, coiled. Like I’d been waiting for this moment since the second he walked into my life. Every flick of his fingers, every drag of his thumb, every slow stroke over my soaked, aching skin, it was all done with an air of authority. Like he wanted me to feel everything. Like he wanted to watch me feel it.

And I did.

Every touch was fire, every second a test I was desperate to fail.

I rested my forehead against his shoulder, lips parted, trying to hold onto something, anything, but he was already everywhere.

In my head.

Under my skin.

Inside my soul.

When his other hand came up to cradle my jaw, tipping my face back up so he could watch me while he kept working me with his fingers, I swore I could have cried. I had never been touched like that.

Not by someone who wantedall of me.

Not by someone who meant tokeepme.

It felt like he was everywhere. His fingers between my legs, coaxing every last nerve to the edge of something unbearable. His hand on my jaw, holding me in place like he already knew I’d try to hide my face when I broke.

“You’re so close,” he crooned, voice like smoke against my cheek. “Look at you… so wet, so needy. All spread out for me like a good girl.”

My thighs trembled, my hips rolling into his hand, chasing the pressure, the heat, therelease…

“Say you want it,” he demanded, lips brushing the corner of my mouth.

I wanted to. I did. But something bratty and reckless lodged in my throat, and instead of surrendering, I smirked.

“Is this your way of making me behave?” I managed, my voice breathless, but wicked. “Because it’s not working.”

His fingers went dead still.

My breath hitched hard.