Or maybe pull him closer.
“Does this bother you?” he asked.
His voice was curious. Too calm.
Like he genuinely didn’t know that every inch of me was shaking.
His gaze roamed—not lecherous, not gloating.
Assessing.
And that made it worse.
Because it meant he was studying the pieces of me coming undone.
I swallowed hard, throat dry as ash.
I wanted to spit out another protest.
Scream at him.
Run.
But nothing came.
Just silence.
Just trembling.
Just that thrum between my legs I refused to acknowledge.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice low and coaxing.
It wasn’t a threat.
It was a challenge.
And I hated him for it.
Because I didn’t know if I wanted him to stop.
His fingers hovered just above my skin—close enough that I felt him without being touched.
Close enough that my body reached for him before my mind could pull it back.
I was trapped.
Not by walls.
Not by vows.
But by the part of me that wanted to feel something—anything—after being numb for so long.
And he was patient.
Like he had all the time in the world to watch me choose the ruin I swore I’d resist.
I felt him before I saw him.
