He doesn't make a move, he doesn't try to kiss me. He just turns to me, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Drink?” he asks, his voice soft.
“Water,” I manage to say, my own voice a stranger's.
He nods and walks to the kitchen, his movements fluid and silent. I stand in the middle of the vast living room, a statue in an emerald green dress, feeling utterly out of place and yet, terrifyingly, exactly where I was always going to end up.
He returns with a glass of water, his fingers brushing mine as he hands it to me. I take a sip, the cool liquid doing nothing to calm the fire in my veins. He watches me, his eyes dark and intense.
“You played your part perfectly tonight,” he says, his voice a low murmur. He closes the distance between us, his movements slow, deliberate. “Every line, every look. You were flawless.”
He stops inches from me. He lifts a hand, his knuckles gently grazing my jawline, a touch so soft it feels like a question. My mind is screamingNo. Stop. Run.But my body is frozen,paralyzed by exhaustion and a terrifying, morbid curiosity. I don't pull away.
His eyes search mine, seeing the conflict. “You're not fighting me,” he whispers, a statement of fact, not a question. “Not anymore.”
He leans in, his lips brushing against mine in a soft, tentative exploration. It’s not demanding, it’s not forceful, it’s worse. It’s a question asked of a body he knows will betray its owner, and he’s right. My eyes flutter closed as a shudder runs through me, a silent, traitorous surrender.
The kiss deepens, slow and consuming. West’s not taking. He’s simply… accepting what I’m not strong enough to withhold. His hand moves from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my head back. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against the hard lines of his body. I feel like I’m drowning, and he is the only solid thing in a world of chaos.
He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, our breaths mingling in the charged air. I am trembling, not from fear but from a terrifying cocktail of emotions I can’t begin to name.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark with a possessive fire. He doesn't speak, he simply takes my hand and leads me from the living room, down the quiet, dark hallway towards his bedroom.
My feet move as if in a dream. Every step is a choice I am making.
His bedroom is minimalist and dark, the only light coming from the glittering city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He brings me to a stop in front of them, turning me so my back is to him, both of us looking out at the sprawling city below.
His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and heavy. I watch our reflection in the dark glass, a ghostly image of a predator and his prey. His head dips, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin of my neck.
“This dress,” he whispers against my skin, his voice a low, rough vibration. “I want it off.”
His hands move to the zipper at my back. The sound of its slow descent is deafening in the silence, a final, metallic sigh of defeat. The cool air hits my skin, and the dress pools around my feet, leaving me standing before him in nothing but my underwear and heels.
He turns me around to face him, his eyes devouring me. He doesn't touch me. He just looks, and in his gaze, I see it all. The victory, the possession. The absolute, terrifying certainty that I am his.
And in this moment, stripped bare in his fortress, I don’t have the strength to disagree.
His eyes drop to the shoes, the last piece of my armor from the night. He kneels before me, a king paying fealty to his conquered queen. The gesture is so at odds with the situation that a hysterical laugh almost bubbles up from my chest. He takes my foot in his hand, his touch surprisingly gentle and slowly, deliberately unclips the first shoe. He slides it off my foot, his fingers tracing a line up my calf, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He repeats the process with the other shoe, his movements unhurried, methodical. Worshipful.
He rises, his eyes never leaving mine, and scoops me into his arms. The movement is so fluid and effortless, I don't have time to react. My head spins. One moment I am standing, the next I am being carried to his bed, a sacrifice to the altar of his obsession.
He lays me down on the cool, crisp sheets, my body a stark contrast to the dark, masculine colors of his room. The city lightsoutside cast long, dancing shadows across my skin. Making me feel exposed, vulnerable, a work of art he is about to claim.
He undresses with an unnerving slowness, his eyes never leaving mine. The suit jacket comes off, then the shirt, revealing a landscape of lean, hard muscle honed by years of brutal, disciplined sport. He is beautiful, a perfect, terrifying predator.
He comes to the bed, not with a pounce but with a slow, deliberate crawl. He looms over me, a dark, powerful shadow against the glittering city. His hands find my body, not with force but with a possessive, exploratory touch. He traces the line of my ribs, the curve of my hip, the frantic pulse at the base of my throat. He is learning me, he is memorizing me, he is branding me with his touch.
West kisses me again, and this time, there is no gentleness. It is a kiss of ownership. His mouth is hot, demanding and my body, my treacherous, broken body responds with a will of its own. A soft sound escapes my lips; a sound of despair, of surrender, of unwanted need.
His hands continue their exploration, mapping my body, cataloging my reactions. He finds my wrists, and he holds them. He doesn't pin them down with force. He simply encircles them with his hands, his thumbs pressing into my pulse points, and the message is clear:you are not in control here. I am. The simple act of holding my wrists is a binding more absolute than any rope. My hands, which write my brilliant papers, conduct my perfect experiments, which try to keep the chaos inside me contained, are now his.
“Don’t move these.” The thought sends a fresh wave of that intoxicating, terrifying mix of fear and desire through me.
West’s hands resume their slow, deliberate exploration. His fingers trace the seam of my panties, a feather-light touch that makes my hips arch off the bed in a silent, desperate plea. He chuckles, a low, dark sound of victory, and then he pushes thefabric aside. His touch is electric, a direct current to the bundle of nerves at my core. My breath hitches. My entire body coils tight, a string pulled to its breaking point.
And then he leans in, whispering against my ear; a final, devastating command. “You don't get to come until I say so.”
The words land like a physical blow. They are the ultimate act of control, an assertion of ownership over the most primal, involuntary part of me. The war inside me, which had quieted erupts into a new, more desperate battle. The pressure inside me builds like an unstoppable tide, and every fiber of my being screams for release, but his command is a lock on the door.
He continues his ministrations, a masterful, torturous orchestration of my pleasure. He knows exactly how to touch me; how to read the subtle shifts in my breathing, the tension in my thighs, the frantic fluttering of my pulse. He is playing my body like an instrument, and he is refusing to let the final, crescendoing note be played.
