Just stands there like a sinner waiting on the blade—like if she breathes wrong, I’ll cut her open and show her what her insides look like.
And I might.
I don’t touch her.
Not yet.
But I let my stare do what my hands can’t—rake her, claim her, undress her inch by fucking inch until I see her chest rise with that telltale hitch of need.
God, she’s pretty.
Not in the soft, harmless way girls are usually pretty.
She’s the kind of pretty that makes men destroy things.
The kind that makes you forget every rule you ever swore you’d follow.
The kind that digs under your skin like a shard of glass and stays there.
I’ve killed for less.
I’ve bled for less.
She shifts again, and this time I see her thighs press together.
She doesn’t even realise she’s doing it.
“Problem?” I murmur.
She blinks up at me, as if she had forgotten where she was.
“I—no.”
Liar.
She’s drowning.
And I’m the fucking tide.
My hand lifts—just instinct, I guess.
I brush her hair back again, same place.
Same move.
But this time, my fingers graze the shell of her ear, and her breath skips like it’s trying to catch up with her heartbeat.
“You always look at men like you want them to wreck you?”
Her eyes go wide.
Good.
Because that’s exactly what I’m thinking about.
Wrecking her.
Ruining her.
