It was a statement that required my response.
My pulse hammered. I forced air into my lungs. Forced my voice not to tremble.
“Okay.”
His eyes held mine, unblinking.
“If you want me to stop,” he said, voice low, “you’ll say so. Clearly.”
A pause.
“Do you understand?”
The words landed with weight. With structure.
With the reminder that whatever darkness he carried, he wasn’t going to take from me without making me participate.
“Yes,” I managed.
“Good.”
Then his hand came up and settled at the side of my neck.
Not squeezing.
Not gentle, either.
Firm. Possessive. Like he was checking for a pulse he already knew was racing.
His thumb brushed the hollow of my throat, right where I’d been red last night, and my breath stuttered.
He watched my reaction like it was data.
“You’re still wet,” he said.
My face flashed hot. “I?—”
“You are,” he repeated, as if correcting a fact. “Your body hasn’t stopped since the plane.”
My thighs pressed together on instinct.
He noticed.
His gaze dropped—briefly—then lifted again.
“I didn’t touch you in bed,” he said. “You didn’t get relief.”
My breath caught.
“Do you want relief?” he asked.
The question was so direct it felt obscene.
I swallowed. “Yes.”
His eyes darkened, just a shade. “Say it properly.”
My nails dug into my palms.
