I shift my hips.
Let the robe slide farther apart.
Fingers ghost up the inside of my thigh—so close now I can feel the air shift with my breath, can feel the tension twist through the atmosphere like a live wire. I want to come. Not for pleasure.
For revenge.
I want to steal the moment he thinks belongs to him. Take it for myself. Own it.
“Still watching?” I murmur, breath catching.
He is. I know he is. He’s probably pacing now, probably cursing through gritted teeth, fists clenched like he can’t decide if he wants to punish me or praise me.
Let him boil.
Let him burn for once.
I bite my lip and press harder—not enough to finish, but enough to make myself whimper. Enough to hear it echo in the room and feel it crawl up the walls like a ghost he can’t exorcise.
I’m close. I’m so close?—
And then I stop.
I freeze.
Because I know what happens if I finish without permission.
Because I know what happens when I defy him too well.
I yank my hand away, the denial sharp, cruel, and self-inflicted.
And I whisper, “You don’t get to break me, Hook. Not if I shatter first.”
Hook
She thinks I’m not in the room.
She thinks the cameras are cold glass and not the extension of my eyes, not the way I see into her soul.
She thinks she’s winning.
And fuck, maybe she is.
I’m standing in front of the monitor like a man who hasn’t moved in hours—because I haven’t. Because I can’t. Because if I so much as blink, I might miss the moment her mask cracks a little deeper, the moment her pride bleeds into pleasure, the moment she forgets herself in the middle of a war she’s already lost.
She’s not touching herself anymore.
But I saw it.
I saw the way her fingers hovered just long enough to mock me, the way her thighs shifted against silk, the way her mouth parted like a fucking prayer to a god who doesn’t deserve her devotion.
And then she stopped. Just like that.
Just to punish me.
It’s infuriating.
It’s intoxicating.
