Page 32 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)

FINN

S he doesn’t move at first.

Just stands there glaring at me like I’ve grown a second head. Like the mere suggestion of her baring herself to me is the most offensive thing I could’ve said.

But I see the flicker.

The way her pupils flare.

The way her breath catches.

She wants this.

Even if she doesn’t want to want it.

Even if it kills her pride.

Good.

We’re both dying slowly anyway.

I cross my arms, lean back against the wall, and nod to the space in front of me.

“Go on then. Show me how much you hate being my wife.” There’s an evil mocking to my tone.

Her fingers twitch at her sides. Rage burns behind her eyes, but that’s not all.

She’s stalling, trying to convince herself this doesn’t affect her.

She fails.

When her bra undoes, she holds it against her breasts; I feel the desire like a pulse in my cock. Her gaze flicks to mine, like she’s daring me to blink.

I don’t.

I want to see every fucking second of this.

“Fucking beautiful,” I murmur, almost to myself.

Her lips purse. She’s trying to make this clinical. Rob it of power.

Too bad.

She can strip me of everything but control.

“Next,” I rasp.

God, I’ve never wanted someone to fail so badly.

To break.

To beg.

Because if she does, I’ll own her.

“You’re halfway there, temptress.”

I’m pushing her, wanting her to spiral into insanity with me.

“Take off the bra,” I press.

She tosses it to the floor like it means nothing. Her nipples harden instantly, and I almost groan. My mouth fucking waters.

I step forward until I’m in front of her again.

Her breath hitches when I raise a single finger and drag it up her bare stomach, between her breasts, tracing that beautiful snake ink.

And finally to her throat.

I don’t squeeze this time.

I don’t have to.

She’s already mine. It’s like she knows what I need, how she has to submit to me eventually. Because this isn’t about if or when; it's inevitable.

“I asked you to strip for your divorce,” I whisper, brushing my lips against her temple. “Not because I wanted a show.”

Her breath shudders out. “Then what the hell do you want?”

I smirk, but my voice is hoarse when I speak. I can’t hide my desire. My want.

“I wanted to see how much pride you’d sacrifice… just to walk away from me.”

I back away slowly, letting my eyes rake over her once more.

And I see it. Clear as day.

She doesn’t want to walk away at all.

Not yet.

Not when she’s burning.

Not when we both are. And I don’t think I have it in me for her to turn her back on me again. I’m too far gone.

This is a fucking nightmare, against everything I’ve built to protect myself from harm.

She’s crumbling it, second by second.

And I’m allowing it.

She doesn’t say a word.

Just stares me down with that sharp, wicked glint in her eye, the one that says she’s done letting me hold the reins.

Good.

Let’s see what she does with them. Because there ain’t a chance in hell she will have them for long.

Her chin lifts as she stalks toward me, still in nothing but her black lace panties. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Every nerve in my body is strung tight.

Her fingers graze up the lapels of my grey jacket. She doesn’t touch my chest. She’s a good girl, listening to my earlier warnings.

She pushes the coat off my shoulders and lets it fall to the ground; it’s like she’s just tossed another piece of my armor off.

Then she shoves me hard.

I drop into the chair behind me with a grunt, the wood creaking beneath my weight, and before I can even open my mouth, she straddles me.

Fuck.

Heat surges through me, my cock straining, already ready to tear through my slacks. She isn’t touching me yet, not properly, but her bare skin hovers just above mine, her breath ghosting over my cheek.

“I’ll strip for my divorce,” she purrs, “and you be a good husband and watch.”

I smirk, even as my pulse hammers. “You think this’ll get you out of it?”

“No,” she whispers. “I think it’ll shut you up for a minute or two though.”

Then she starts to move.

Not with hesitation.

With fire.

Her hips roll in perfect rhythm, pure fucking sin that I cannot resist. She trails her fingers through her hair, down her sides, over the soft swell of her breasts as she rocks over me.

It’s not just a dance.

It’s a threat. A warning. A weapon.

She’s marking me, without even touching skin to skin.

And still, I can’t bring myself to stop her.

My hands grip the edge of the chair. White-knuckled. Holding myself back, but only just.

“You think this makes you the one in control?” I ask, breathless.

She leans down, her breasts brushing my shirt, her lips at my ear.

“No. I think it makes you obsessed.”

She’s not wrong.

I should push her off me. Remind her who the fuck I am. Remind her that no one, not even my wife, gets to pull strings on me.

But instead…

I watch.

I admire as she grinds on me, rolling her hips. Her mouth parted. Her hands dragging down her own body like she doesn’t even need me, like she’s enough for herself. And she is.

She’s fucking magnificent in her own right.

It’s infuriating. Addictive. Beautiful.

And she has no idea what she’s just unleashed.

I grip her thighs hard and drag her forward, pressing her down on my cock that’s still painfully trapped behind my zipper.

She gasps, her nails biting into my shoulders.

She can feel how hard I am for her. I want her to know how fucking crazed she makes me, more than anyone else ever has in the world.

“You want to dance, wife?” I growl. “Then fucking dance.”

She moves again, slower now, her pussy grinding against my restraint.

But I’m done watching.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, not being able to take one second longer of this torture.

I’ve just found my weakness.

I reach up, grab the back of her neck, and yank her mouth to mine.

And everything ignites.