Warm. Tense. Trembling.
She gasped—tried to jerk away. My fingers flexed around her throat, just enough.
“Don’t,” she warned, voice cracking on the edge of panic and something else she wasn’t ready to name.
“Or you’ll what?” I whispered, my breath brushing her lips. “Cry? Scream? Or maybe… come all over my fingers like the good little liar you are?”
Her pupils flared. Her breath hitched.
And I felt it—that moment her body betrayed her mouth.
She hated me.
But her body?
It was curious.
Dangerously curious.
I felt myself harden, the idea of unraveling her piece by piece sinking deep into my bloodstream.
Not because I had to.
Because I knew, I already owned her reactions.
She locked eyes with me, green storm-clouds full of fury and fear.
But buried there, deep?
I saw it.
The realization.
That she could shove, scream, threaten—and none of it would change the truth.
Not this tension.
Not this hunger.
Not the fact that we were already past the point of return.
“Look at you,” I murmured, voice as soft as it was cruel.
Her body stiffened—eyes wide, fury already coiling in her throat.
But my gaze dropped.
Lower.
And there they were.
Tight peaks under the thin fabric of her dress. Her nipples, hard and unmissable.
She gasped, instinctively trying to pull back, even with my hand on her throat, my other moving up her thigh.
“Oh, Persephone…” I dragged out her name like a sin. “So sensitive.”
My hand moved before she could protest.
