It’s mine.
Every filthy second of it.
My hand grips the edge of the desk so tight the wood creaks in protest. My knuckles are white. My jaw’s locked hard enough to crack teeth. There’s a pulse in my temple that won’t quit, hammering in rhythm with the beat between her legs I should be owning right now.
She’s baiting me.
And fuck, I want to bite.
I want to tear the door off its fucking hinges and drag her out by the throat, press her into the mattress she’s defiled with her scent and make her beg with every broken, breathless inch of her. I want to ruin the rebellion simmering in her eyes. But I don’t move.
Watching her deny herself is the cruellest kind of art—and I’m a man who appreciates masterpieces, who collects them.
She doesn’t realise this is foreplay.
That the longer she resists, the worse it’s going to be.
She doesn’t realise I’m not watching like a man.
I’m watching like a monster.
A collector.
A god.
And when I finally go to her, when I finally take what’s already mine, there won’t be an inch of her that doesn’t remember how I watched her unravel, how I let her play her little game until the strings snapped and all that was left was obedience.
But not yet.
No, not yet.
She wanted an audience?
She got one.
And I hope she burns under the weight of it.
I don’t go to her.
I don’t even move.
I just stand there, frozen in this twisted tableau of want and restraint, watching her unravel herself inch by inch, unaware that every breath she exhales is another nail in the coffin of my sanity.
The monitor crackles softly in the dark.
The room is silent—except for her. Her sighs. Her muttered curses. The rustle of sheets. The way she tosses herself across the bed like she’s trying to shake me off her skin, like my presence still haunts the fabric.
She doesn’t know I’m already under it.
Inside her.
Threaded through every crack she tries to seal.
And she’s starting to realise it too.
It’s in the way she clenches her fists. The way she looks at the ceiling like she wants to scream and the sound gets lodged in her throat. The way she grips the edge of the pillow like it’s a throat she wants to squeeze.
Mine.
