Each inch?
Claimed.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Good.
She was learning.
I stepped in behind her—close enough to feel her breath stutter.
The heat between us buzzed like live wire.
And she was holding it bare-handed.
My hands lifted to the base of her spine.
One finger dragged up the line of the open zipper—slow, deliberate, barely touching skin but just enough.
She went still.
“Breathe in,” I murmured.
She did.
Obedient. Resentful.
Beautiful.
I pulled the zipper up like I was unsheathing a blade.
Slow. Controlled. Unavoidable.
The sound echoed in the quiet—a tiny click-click-click that sounded an awful lot like yes, yes, yes.
Her spine stiffened with every inch, like her resolve was trying to outrun the fabric sealing around her body.
“You look like you were made for this,” I said, low and smooth.
Not a compliment.
A fact.
Her jaw clenched. “Don’t.”
Oh, we were doing this?
“You’re trembling,” I added, voice right against her ear, breath sliding over skin like smoke.
“I’m cold,” she lied.
I smiled, slow and wicked.
“No. You’re not.”
Because I could feel the heat rolling off her.
