But danger doesn’t scare me.
Boredom does.
I watch him as I finish my drink, set the glass down, and slide off my bar stool.
“Your place or mine?”
Silas lumbers to his feet, towering over me as he holds his hand out in invitation. He doesn’t grab or command me, just patiently waits for me to follow through with my choice.
He doesn’t want my surrender.
And I won’t give it.
The hotel Silas takes me to is one of those places that smells like expensive soap and secrecy. A single lamp burns low near the bed, soft amber light bleeding through the dark.
He lets the door shut behind us with a quiet click, the sound almost polite. I kick off my shoes out of habit, leaving them near the armchair in front of the window.
On the way here, he mentioned something about needing a night away from his place. Too much noise. I didn’t ask whohe was trying to escape, and he didn’t ask what I was running toward.
It’s enough to keep me comfortable.
He stands idle for a moment, watching me like he’s deciding where to start. Not with my body; he looks like he knows exactly where to start physically… But with the line between curiosity and restraint.
Where can he bend, and where can he break?
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low and textured with a slight growl.
“If I weren’t, you would know,” I answer, grinning. “Needing a repeat of consent is sweet, but I can assure you, you couldn’t stop me from walking out that door if I didn’t want to be here.”
“You look like you’re still deciding,” he amends. “I need you to be sure.”
“I’ve already decided,” I murmured, stepping closer.
The corner of his mouth tugs into a smirk. “Then come finish what you started.”
I shake my head. “I haven’t started yet.”
Silas closes the space between us despite his challenging words, as if he can’t wait any longer to test me. His rough palm slides along to my jaw, fingertips brush my neck, sinking into my hair as he tugs me into his chest.
Our mouths meet in a slow collision, all heat and too much patience. His free hand rests on my hip, firm but steady. I can feel the control in his touch, the promise of what he would do if I asked.
But I don’t want to ask.
I want him to break and take it.
The kiss isn’t rushed. It isn’t gentle either. He’s a man tasting something he’s been thinking about for too long, the precision in his movements speaking volumes.
I match him, slow and deliberate, testing the edges of his patience. When I tug at his shirt, he steps back just far enough for me to pull it over his head. I take my time, and he lets me, holding his arms out like a smartass while I appraise the ridges of his abdomen.
My hands seek his skin, hot and hard beneath my fingertips. He groans against my mouth as I trace along the waist of his jeans with a featherlight touch.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice gone dark. “You know exactly what you’re doing to me, don’t you?”
“Would you like me to stop?”
He smiles against my mouth. “Not a chance.”
That line… It reminds me of another night I’ve had recently, but now isn’t the time to focus on it, so I file it away for later. I have other things in mind.
