Jack’s hand clamped down on my hip, squeezing hard, his other on the back of my neck—possessive, rough, just how I liked it. I was bent over, bracing myself with one hand while the other dug into the couch. I felt his rhythm change, his pace deepen, and my body pushed toward it, greedily.
And still—I caught that look on Elliott’s face. That little furrow between his brows. The way his mouth had gone tense, like he was holding something back.
And suddenly, I wasn’t just feeling Jack behind me—I was burning with every unspoken word between me and the man I loved.
Becausewe’ve done this. Wealwaysdid this. Fuck, Elliott has tied me up, dragged me to the floor with his hand over my mouth, chased me down in the dark, taken me hard and fast, called me his prey. He’s held me by the throat. He’s pinned me while I cried out for more.
He knows I like this. So why the fuck was he looking at me like I was breakable?
Because it wasn’thimdoing it?
Was that it?
Did he only trust my pain when it came from his hands?
Or did seeing someone else treat me that way dredge up something darker, something leftover from Michael?
The thought made my stomach twist. I knew Elliott loved me. I knew he respected me. But I also knew that Michael had left bruises that didn’t show.
And maybe Elliott thought Jack would too. That if he looked away for too long, something bad would happen, that he’d fail me.
But I wasn’t that girl anymore.
And Jack wasn’t Michael.
This wasn’t violence. This was power given and shared. And I wanted every second of it.
Still, the tension on Elliott’s face lingered. I hated that I couldn’t reach out to him from here. I hated that I couldn’t make himseeit—see that I wasn’t afraid, that I was thriving.
So I just nodded, as if that was my silent reassurance to him.
And I made sure he heard me when I moaned. I made sure he saw the way my mouth fell open, the way I pressed back into Jack’s thrusts.
If he was going to watch, I needed him tosee. I didn’t want pity or doubt.
Justme—unafraid, insatiable, and in control of every inch of this.
* * *
The house had gone quiet.
Somewhere, Jack and Hana were probably curled together in bed, their energy spent and satisfied. But here we were—me and Elliott—alone in our room. The tense silence between us was palpable. Not cold or angry. Just…tense.
I sat on the edge of the bed, still naked and unabashed. He stood near the dresser, now dressed in his boxer briefs, his hand on his hip like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to sit or pace.
I waited for him to speak first, but he was silent. So I did.
“You’re mad.”
His eyes flicked up at me, and he shook his head. “I’m not mad.”
“But you’resomething,” I said gently. “Because you haven’t looked me in the eye since we came in here.”
“Iamlooking at you,” he said, but there was a wryness to it, more of a deflection.
“Then why does it feel like you’re mad at me?” I asked with frustration.
He turned, finally sitting beside me.
