The air felt colder now—too cold. It bit at my skin, chased a shiver straight down my spine, and reminded me that I was no longer dressed for defense.
I couldn’t breathe.
Or maybe I just didn’t want to know why my breath caught—whether it was fear, or fury, or the heat blooming low in my stomach like something wicked I didn’t invite.
“You hate me,” he murmured.
His voice cut through the stillness—velvet over broken glass.
Smooth. Sharp.
Too intimate.
“But your body doesn’t.”
I wanted to flinch.
Wanted to recoil.
To throw those words back at him and make him bleed for saying them.
But the truth?
The truth was already coiling around my ribs, sinking its teeth in with every shallow breath I took.
He moved closer.
His fingers brushed my hair aside, slow and deliberate.
He could’ve yanked it. Could’ve claimed it like everything else.
But he didn’t.
He caressed it, like he was handling something fragile, something his.
And then his knuckles grazed my collarbone.
I gasped. Silently. Inwardly. Like the air betrayed me for reacting.
No kisses.
No wandering hands.
Not yet.
But that was the worst part.
He didn’t have to touch me to unravel me.
He just had to stand there—fully clothed in black, tailored sin—while I stood bare in front of him, all skin and shame and treacherous heat.
“Stop,” I whispered.
It was pathetic. Soft.
A word meant to command that barely reached the air between us.
His mouth curved. That knowing smirk that made me want to slap him.
