“But I won’t,” I continued, lips curling into something wolfish. “You’ll beg me first.”
She spun, fire in her eyes, teeth bared like she could actually bite the devil and survive it. “I will never?—”
“I know,” I cut in, smooth as a lie whispered in the dark. “You tell yourself that every night.”
Her chest rose. Fell. Rose again.
Hands clenched.
Knuckles white.
Every inch of her braced to burn.
But she didn’t rip the dress.
Didn’t bolt for the door.
She stood her ground.
Burning.
Beautiful.
Mine.
The silence stretched out between us, taut as piano wire—vibrating with tension, daring one of us to strike the first note.
And gods, she was stunning in the middle of that tension.
A wildfire forced into silk.
Contained.
But not for long.
“You think this is a game?” she spat, voice shaking from anger or adrenaline—or something else entirely.
And there it was.
That flicker behind her eyes.
The crack.
The glimpse of something she didn’t want me to see:
Curiosity.
Desire.
Buried.
But not dead.
I stepped in. Close enough to steal her breath if I wanted to.
“Oh, it’s a game,” I said, voice like a sin sliding down her spine. “But it’s not just mine.”
I reached out—slow, like she might bolt—fingers brushing the edge of her neckline. Just fabric. Barely a touch.
