Page 52

The SUV hums beneath us, sleek and silent as it glides through the dark.

I sit in the front passenger seat, my body relaxed but my focus razor-sharp.

One hand rests lazily on my thigh while the other wraps around a small black remote.

It’s unmarked and unassuming. But tonight, it might as well be the detonator to something nuclear.

She’s sitting in the backseat.

Lyra Vane, in a shining dress that looks like it was painted onto her skin with a brush dipped in sin. Her legs are crossed too tightly, her shoulders pinned straight like she’s balancing something breakable. But I know that look. That stillness is control she’s barely holding onto.

Zara is next to her, blissfully unaware. She’s rambling about something, either about NFT wellness coaches or another man in her DMs who thinks breathwork can fix narcissism. Whatever it is, it’s just noise to me because my focus is behind me, radiating heat and breath.

I flick the remote.

Just once. On low setting.

Lyra’s reaction is microscopic but unmistakable to me. Her lips part, and her eyelids flutter. Her grip on the seat tenses as if her entire nervous system is being jolted awake.

She doesn’t move otherwise and doesn’t make a sound.

But I can feel her unraveling already. The anticipation must have made her wet, and the very thought of that makes me hard. Fuck, I want to see this woman screaming and begging.

I watch her in the rearview mirror, angling myself just so I can see the barest shift in her jawline and the soft tremor in her breath.

She’s clenching her thighs and probably grinding her teeth behind her flawless lipstick.

Every muscle of hers is taut beneath her dress, and she knows I’m watching.

“Everything okay back there?” I ask, my voice as smooth as aged whiskey and layered with mock concern.

Her eyes flick up to meet mine in the mirror. “Peachy,” she answers, but it comes out like a dare.

With a grin, I dial it up another notch.

This time, her breath audibly hitches. Zara’s still lost in her phone, scrolling and sipping the remnants of her cocktail like she’s backstage at a fashion show instead of sandwiched between tension so thick that it could slice flesh.

Lyra adjusts slightly, just a minimal movement. But it’s enough for me to see how she’s struggling to stay composed and how her dress shifts ever so slightly as she fights the urge to grind down against the seat.

My pulse is steady, but I feel the satisfaction bloom deep and slow in my chest. It’s not because I’m torturing her. Not exactly. It’s because she’s letting me.

She could’ve said stop, but she didn’t. Not yet, at least.

I turn a little, pretending to stretch. Just enough to catch the full profile of her face.

She’s glowing.

Her cheeks are flushed, her lips are parted, and her hands are twitching in her lap like she doesn’t know what to do with them. Her eyes, however, are glassy and unfocused but sharp. Alive. And goddamn beautiful.

I don’t say a word. I just turn the dial back down to gentle pulses now. Enough to keep her burning.

When we reach Zara’s apartment complex, she finally lifts her head. “This is me,” she says brightly. “Unless you two are planning a threesome and forgot to tell me.”

Lyra laughs, but it’s strained and choked. “Good night,” she manages, her voice barely above a whisper.

Zara bounces out of the car, her heels clicking as she makes her way toward the front entrance. A moment later, the glass doors shut behind her, and the energy in the vehicle shifts.

It’s like dropping the mask at the end of a masquerade.

I look back at Lyra. There’s no mirror now. I look at her directly.

She’s biting her lip, not seductively but desperately. Her hands fist the edge of the seat as the vibrations hit a peak again, and her legs shake with the effort of keeping still.

I increase the setting.

Her head tips back. A moan catches in her throat but doesn’t escape as she clenches her jaw and squeezes her eyes shut.

Every part of her is fighting.

And every part of me is loving it.

She’s restrained chaos—a goddess shackled in an ethereal glow. And I’m the one holding the key.

The driver’s still in the car. Otherwise, she would’ve unraveled already.

We pull away from Zara’s building, and the silence is only broken by the sharp intake of Zara’s breath. The driver doesn’t say a word. Smart man. He knows better than to ask questions when the air feels like it’s vibrating.

After a few torturous minutes of her moving around, clenching the seat, and massaging her thigh for some relief, the car finally pulls up to the estate. Gravel crunches beneath the car, and warm light spills out from the front porch.

“Give us a minute,” I tell the driver.

He nods and steps out, closing the door behind him with a soft click .

The moment it shuts, I turn in my seat, rising from the front and sliding into the back with her.

Lyra doesn’t move. She’s breathing hard, and her eyes meet mine, wide and dark and pleading, all without saying a single word.

Her legs are pressed together like her sanity depends on it. Her hands tremble in her lap, still holding on to decorum like it’s the last shield she has left.

I sit beside her. Not touching.

The remote is still in my hand.

She’s not just on edge. She’s living on it.

And I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

She’s trembling beside me, still clutching the edge of the seat like it’s the only thing anchoring her to reality. Her breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, every inhale a battle, every exhale a near-surrender.

“Turns out I don’t need to touch you to make you shiver,” I say slyly, leaning back and resting beside the door. The view is beautiful. Her dress is riding up, and she’s barely keeping herself together.

The remote is warm in my hand, slick with the heat of anticipation. I run my thumb over the dial. I could end her right now by cranking it, and then watch her fall apart like glass on concrete.

But I don’t because this isn’t about chaos. It’s about control.

Her hand rises to her breasts, probably to touch and soothe.

“I want you to keep your hands where they are,” I murmur, my voice low and lethal. “No touching. Not unless I say so.”

Her head jerks slightly, her eyes fluttering. She’s struggling to stay present, to obey. The fight in her is exquisite. I could live a thousand lives and never get tired of watching her break like this, beautiful, poised, and undone without a single fingertip laid on her.

“Okay?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. Wrong choice. I nudge the dial up just a notch.

The sound she makes, guttural and involuntary, is the kind of thing that could literally unmake a man.

“Yes…” she breathes. She writhes in place, her hips shifting, seeking something solid beneath her that won’t give her relief but might at least let her breathe.

Her thighs clamp tighter, and she presses back into the seat, with one heel scraping against the floorboard as if anchoring herself to earth.

“You’re doing so well,” I say, letting the words drawl slowly and deeply. “Look at you. Trying so hard not to beg.”

She opens her mouth, maybe to curse me, maybe to cry out, but all that escapes is a broken gasp.

“Shh,” I whisper, leaning closer but still not touching her. “Don’t waste your voice. You’ll need it later.”

I crank the setting higher.

This time, her body jerks. Her head tips back against the leather seat with a soft thud, and her hand flies to her chest, clutching the fabric like it might shield her from the inferno building beneath her skin.

Her legs are shaking now, and her lips are swollen from her biting on them. Her eyes snap to mine, desperate, defiant, and drenched in something darker than lust.

“Touch your breasts now,” I command, my voice like a razor sliding under her skin.

She whimpers but obeys, her hands trembling as she brings them up. One of them cups her breast through the silk while the other slides over the curve slowly. Her back arches, pushing herself against her own touch, and my breath catches at the sight.

“Harder,” I growl.

She moans, louder now—a sound she can’t swallow. Her fingers tighten over the fabric, kneading and grasping, her body shifting and twisting, every inch of her screaming for something she can’t have yet.

I notch the remote up again.

This time, she sobs. Just once. A raw sound pulled straight from her lungs. She grips the headrest of the seat in front of her, her knuckles turning white.

“I can’t… I can’t take it anymore, Silas… please…”

We go on for a few more minutes… minutes that must feel like days for Lyra, with the way I’m torturing her.

She’s whimpering, gasping, and moaning, her breath hitching in all the right places.

Every sound spilling from that pretty little mouth of hers is sinful and obscene, and it’s taking everything in me not to lose control.

I’m hard as stone and aching, but I don’t touch myself. Not yet.

And then she breaks. Correction: I let her break.

She comes like she’s been hit by lightning, her hips rising off the seat and her legs trembling so violently that the entire car seems to pulse with it. Her mouth falls open in a silent scream, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands still frozen mid-touch as her whole body locks, then shudders.

Satisfied, I dial it down. All the way.

She collapses into me, boneless and shaking, her skin slick with sweat and release. She’s panting, her eyes wide and wild like she’s forgotten where she is. Like I’ve rewired her.

I tuck the remote back into my jacket pocket and kiss her on the forehead.

Then, silently, I lift her into my arms. She doesn’t protest. She just curls into me, warm and soft, her lashes fluttering as she tries to catch her breath.

She’s flushed and glowing, her body still humming from what I gave her.

Every inch of her clings to me like she knows she belongs here, like she’s known it all along.

I carry her inside, up the stairs, and into her room. The house is quiet and dim, the only sound our shared breathing and the soft creak of each step beneath my feet. Her fingers twist into the fabric of my shirt like she’s anchoring herself to me. As if letting go isn’t an option anymore.

In the hush of her room, I set her down gently on the bed.

She gazes up at me, her eyes dazed and half-lidded, her lips parted like she still can’t believe what just happened.

Her skin is flushed with heat, her thighs still trembling slightly.

She looks like a dream in the low light, wrecked and radiant, completely mine.

I brush a strand of damp hair from her cheek and let my thumb linger along the curve of her jaw. She leans into the touch without hesitation. There’s a trust in her now, raw and unspoken, and it undoes me more than anything else ever could.

She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.