“I don’t want a good man.”
He smirks—slow and dangerous.
“Careful, butterfly.”
He leans in, his mouth just beside mine in the mirror.
“Say one more thing I like, and I’ll make sure you never forget what it feels like to be wanted by someone who knows how to ruin you right.”
I can’t see him.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
Because I can feel everything.
The silence wraps around me like velvet soaked in gasoline—soft, thick, and waiting to ignite. I can’t hear his footsteps, but I know he hasn’t moved far. I feel his hesitation like a hand hovering just above my skin, not touching—but aching to.
The blindfold makes every breath louder, every heartbeat sharper.
I’m in the dark.
But I’m not alone.
Not really.
Not with the way the air keeps shifting, like he’s circling me—like he’s trying to decide whether to devour me or drag himself out of the room before he does.
I feel his voice before I hear it.
Low. Gritted. Like it’s tearing itself out of his throat.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
I don’t say anything.
I can’t.
Not when the heat of him is so close I could lean back and fall into him without even trying.
“But you said show me,” he whispers, more to himself than me. “And I don’t half-ass anything, butterfly. Not this. Not you.”
His fingers graze my arm.
Not enough.
Too much.
A shiver dances across my skin like it’s been waiting for him.
“I want to touch you,” he says, so quietly it’s almost not there. “God, I want to.”
I flinch.
Not because I’m afraid.
But because it sounds like it hurts him to admit that.
“Do you know what it’s like,” he breathes, “to want something so badly it makes you hate yourself?”
