I reach across the table and grip her chin again, turning her back to me. My thumb digs into the soft skin of her cheek. “Don’t look away. Not from me.”
Her chest heaves, her pulse thrashing against my fingers.
“You’ve got two choices, Brooklyn.” My tone is calm, cruel, inevitable. “You can sit there, legs wide, and show me what’s mine.” I let the pause sink in, heavy as chains. “Or I can drag you out of that chair myself, bend you over this fucking table, and take a look anyway.”
Her breath hitches. She hates me at this moment. I see it in the fire in her eyes. She hates me—and she’s burning for me.
“Your move.”
I release her chin, deliberately slow, letting her feel the imprint of my hand linger on her skin. Then I sit back again, sipping my coffee like it’s just another morning.
She doesn’t move.
Not an inch. Not a twitch. Just sits there with her knees clamped tight together, like the pressure might save her from me, like she thinks willpower alone can cage the pulse thrumming at her throat.
I wait.
The silence gnaws at her. She fidgets with the napkin, folds and unfolds it until it’s a mangled mess in her hands. My eyes never leave her lap. She knows it. She feels it.
“You’re—” Her voice cracks, and she swallows hard. “You’re impossible.”
I smirk into my coffee. “Impossible?” I echo, lazy, amused. “No, baby girl. I’m inevitable.”
Her eyes flash. Anger, shame, arousal tangled so tight I can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. She opens her mouth, then shuts it again.
That’s when I lean forward, slow enough she can see it coming but not stop it. My forearm rests on the table, my other hand tracing idle circles along the wood grain. “Still waiting, Brooklyn.”
Her thighs press tighter. She tilts her chin as if defiance alone could shield her. “Maybe I don’t want to give you what you want.”
I laugh. Quiet, deep, cruel. “Maybe?”
Her face burns. She’s cornered herself, and she knows it.
“You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that,” I murmur, studying her like a puzzle I’ve already solved. “But don’t kid yourself. Everysecond you sit there pretending you’re not wet, you’re just proving me right.”
Her breath stutters. She grips the table edge so hard her knuckles blanch.
I take another slow sip, letting the silence sharpen. Then, deliberately, I set my cup down, the sound of porcelain on wood loud in the tension.
“You’ve got three seconds,” I say quietly, my eyes cutting into hers. “Three. To decide if you’re going to be a good girl, or if you want me to ruin that pretty little chair with your screams.”
Her pulse leaps. I count, slow, steadily, cruel.
“One.”
She shakes her head, whispering something I can’t quite catch.
“Two.”
Her knees twitch. The tiniest movement. The kind that betrays everything.
I lean back, letting the threat hang heavy between us. “Don’t make me get to three, Brooklyn.”
Her lips part like she wants to speak, but all that slips out is a shaky exhale. I catch it—every ragged ounce of it—and let it curl around me like smoke.
The chair creaks when she shifts. Not much. Just enough that I know she’s trapped between the urge to bolt and the need to stay exactly where I told her to.
“Two and a half,” I murmur, not rushing it, dragging each syllable across her nerves like the scrape of a blade.
