I pin her wrists against the seat with one hand.
She snarls something about freedom, about choice, about how I’m just another fucking man trying to?—
But she cuts off mid-sentence because I press the flat of the hook between her thighs through her jeans and her whole body jerks like she’s been electrocuted.
Not from pain.
From contact, from the reality of metal against denim against skin.
From recognition of what’s happening.
“You hate this,” I murmur, voice rough and patient and close enough that she can feel it.
“Fuck you,” she spits.
“You hate me,” I continue as if she hasn’t spoken.
“I want you dead,” she hisses, and maybe she even believes it.
“Then why are you dripping through your fucking knickers, Tahlia?”
Her face goes red, flush spreading from her cheeks down her throat.
Not from rage this time.
From exposure, from being seen, from having the truth dragged into the light.
I haven’t even touched skin yet, haven’t made contact with anything but fabric and she’s already wet enough that I can feel it through the denim, can sense the heat and slickness even through the layers.
I release one wrist just long enough to drag my fingers between her legs with deliberate pressure—just to prove it, just to show her what she won’t say out loud.
She shudders when I press against the heat there, muscles clenching. Just once. Just enough to confirm what we both know.
Then I pull back and hold my fingers up between us in the dim light of the car.
Shining with moisture. Soaked. Silent proof of her body’s betrayal.
She looks at them like they’ve betrayed her somehow.
Like her own body is a traitor working for the enemy.
“You don’t get to do this,” she breathes, voice shaking like it’s trying to climb up her throat and escape.
“I already did,” I point out calmly.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“No,” I say, slipping my fingers into her mouth without warning, pushing them slowly between her lips until she’s gagging on the taste of herself, on the evidence of her arousal, “you fucking answered for it.”
Her mouth trembles around my knuckles, warm and wet.
And then?—
She bites down on my fingers.
Hard enough that I feel teeth.
Not enough to break skin or cause real damage.
