The thought made my pulse race.
So the question now wasn’t what I wanted.
It was how to let him know—without surrendering the power I’d just claimed—that I wanted his control to snap.
I showered and threw on clothes without overthinking them—black jeans, a soft top that clung more than I usually allowed, boots I could walk fast in.
I slung my camera over my shoulder, the familiar weight grounding and provocative all at once. The lens cap clicked off with a sound that felt suggestive in the quiet room.
Everything felt heightened.
The scrape of denim against my thighs.
The stretch of fabric across my chest.
The way my body seemed hyperaware of itself, as if it had finally been invited into the conversation.
I didn’t check my phone.
If Connor had texted, I didn’t want to see it yet. I wanted this choice to be clean. Mine.
The café was already busy when I arrived—the same one by the river, all narrow tables and scratched wood and sunlight slanting in like it knew exactly where to land. The barista nodded at me like we were old acquaintances. The smell of coffee and warm bread hit me hard, sensual in a way that made my stomach tighten.
Everything was doing that this morning.
A woman laughed too loudly at the table near the window, head tipped back, throat exposed. A man leaned in to murmur something in her ear, his hand settling at her lower back like it belonged there. A couple argued softly over pastries, tension flickering between them like a prelude instead of a problem.
I lifted my camera without thinking.
Click.
A hand gripping a coffee cup too tightly.
Click.
A mouth stained faintly with foam.
Click.
I told myself it was about composition. About light and texture and human closeness.
It wasn’t.
I was seeing everything through the lens of my body—angles that suggested friction, pauses that felt like anticipation. I photographed a man’s wrist resting on the table, veins visible beneath skin. Like Connor’s. I had the vivid thought of what it would feel like if Connor pinned me down.
I swallowed hard.
Get a grip.
I ordered coffee I didn’t need—something strong, something bitter—and took my usual seat, camera resting against my ankle. I tried not to look at the door every five seconds.
Tried and failed.
Every time it opened, my back straightened. Every tall silhouette made my breath hitch. My body had apparently decided that Connor Ward was now the axis around which it oriented itself.
I hated how much I liked that.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
