My whole body trembles.
“I didn’t say you could ache.”
I whimper. Quiet. But it’s there.
“I didn’t say you could want.”
The hook slides down, featherlight, until it drags over the centre of my chest, barely skimming fabric. My nipples tightenbeneath the lace, a humiliating betrayal, and I know he sees it. I know that bastard sees everything.
“But you do, don’t you, Tinkerbell?”
I clench my fists in the sheets.
I don’t say yes. I don’t say no.
And that’s the problem.
That’s what breaks him.
I want to scream.
Not out of fear—but frustration. Rage. Humiliation.
Because he hasn’t touched me—not really—and I’m already falling apart for him.
Every nerve is a fuse, lit and hissing, the pressure building behind my eyes like I’m going to burst into flame just from the weight of his stare alone. My breath trembles as I exhale. I can’t seem to pull enough air in. Like the atmosphere shifted the second he stepped closer. Like the oxygen is his now.
He doesn’t need to tie me up.
He doesn’t need to lay a hand on me.
I am already restrained by want.
And he knows it.
“Go on,” he whispers, his voice as velvet-dark as the room around us. “Be the good little rebel. Say no whilst your thighs beg yes.”
The hook moves. Slowly. With surgical cruelty.
It trails between my breasts, the dull edge dragging over the lace like a threat and a promise wrapped in metal. I flinch—but I don’t pull away. I can’t.
Because when he touches me—when he speaks to me like that—I forget why I was ever angry. I forget what I’m fighting for.
My lip splits beneath the pressure of my own teeth.
He sees it. That crack.
“Poor little fairy.” His voice is a razor dipped in honey. “Trying so hard to pretend you’re not mine. You think I didn’t see the way your hips moved when I stepped closer?”
He leans in.
His breath ghosts my cheek.
His hook dips lower, not touching skin, just the suggestion of it—a whisper above the curve of my stomach where the fabric thins.
My thighs press together.
And I hate myself for it.
