My palm hits his chest, feeling the heat through layers of fabric, and his breath stutters like I’ve punched a fault line instead of a man. That’s when his hand comes up – big, scar-rough, devastatingly careful – and cups the back of my neck.
No hesitation. No softness.
Just intent.
His mouth crashes into mine, and holy hell – it’s fire and restraint and months of unsaid things all breaking at once. He kisses like he fights: controlled, punishing, absolutely certain I can take it. My lips part on instinct, a pleased little hum slipping out because I love when he forgets to be gentle.
He doesn’t forget for long.
His thumb presses just under my ear, tilting my head exactly where he wants it, and the kiss goes deeper, slower, hotter. Not frantic. Never frantic. Hatchet doesn’t lose control – he decides to apply pressure, one calculated inch at a time.
I smile into his mouth because I’m infuriating like that, and I feel it when he notices. The vibration in his chest rolls straight through me. He bites my lower lip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to promise he could.
Message received.
I curl my fingers into his shirt and kiss him back with teeth and heat and absolutely no apologies. If he’s fire, then fine – I’ll be the gasoline. I pull until my back hits the wall, until his body cages me in without ever pinning me, until every inch of him saysstaywithout a single word.
When he finally pulls back, our foreheads touch. His breathing is controlled again. Mine isn’t.
He looks at me like I’m dangerous. I grin, slow and sharp.Good.
His hand moves like a decision already made. One second it’s braced beside my head, keeping the world neatly boxedin around us, and the next it’s sliding down my side – slow, deliberate, like he’s reminding me he knows exactly where everything is. Fingers hook into my waistband, rough knuckles grazing bare skin, and I inhale so sharply it feels like my lungs forget their job.
He pauses.
Just enough.
Just long enough for me to feel the question in the stillness – even though he’ll never ask it out loud. His eyes flick to mine, dark and steady, giving me the choice he pretends he doesn’t need.
I rock my hips forward in answer.
That’s all it takes.
His hand plunges in, warm and sure, palm fitting me like it was always meant to be there. I make a sound – unfiltered, pleased, a little wicked – and his jaw tightens like he’s locking something down before it escapes him.
God, he’s hot. Not just temperature – though there’s plenty of that – but presence. The way he touches me like I’m something he’s claimed responsibility for. Like he’ll wreck the world before he mishandles me.
His thumb presses where I’m already aching, slow and devastating, and I laugh breathlessly because of course he knows. Of course he goes straight for the place that makes my knees threaten mutiny.
I tilt my head back against the wall, exposing my throat, watching him watch me. His focus is absolute. Surgical. Reverent in the way only dangerous men ever are.
“Don’t stop,” I murmur, because I like poking the beast.
His response is a firm, warning squeeze to my clit –behave– followed by a deeper slide of his fingers that makes my words dissolve into a gasp.
Mute or not, Daddy Hatchet speaks fluent control.
And he’s saying my name with every touch.
Unhurried.
That’s the worst –best– part of it.
His hand moves with ruthless patience, thumb circling my clit just enough to make my thoughts unravel. Every breath turns shallow, every smart remark evaporates into helpless little sounds I don’t even try to swallow back. He watches me come apart like it’s a task he intends to complete perfectly.
Pressure builds, tight and bright and inevitable.
When it finally hits, it’s like my body forgets where it ends. I break against his hand, pulse stuttering, legs trembling so hard he has to brace me more firmly against the wall. He stays right there through it, grounding me, holding me steady while I ride out the aftershocks.
