A whimper escaped me, low and needy. My hands fisted at my sides, nails biting into my palms to keep from reaching for him. He was so close—the hard line of his body, the scent of pine and smoke and man—that I could feel the restraint vibrating through him, too.
But he mastered it. He mastered me.
His free hand slid to my waist, gripping firmly, pulling me flush against him. I felt him then—thick, hard, pressing againstmy abdomen through his jeans. Proof that he wanted this as badly as I did. But he didn't grind. Didn't seek relief. He just let me feel it, let the promise of it torture me.
"This is what you do to me," he growled softly. "But I control it. And you. You'll wait until you're begging without words. Until your body weeps for me."
He traced a slow path down my side, fingers skimming the curve of my hip, then lower, bunching the fabric of my dress just enough to expose the edge of the lace garter. His thumb hooked under it, snapping it lightly against my thigh. The sting shot straight to my core, making me gasp, my hips bucking forward on instinct.
He stilled me immediately, his grip like iron. "No. You take what I give."
Tears pricked my eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming need building inside me, coiling tighter with every denied touch. I was on fire, every nerve alight, my mind hazy with want. He was unraveling me without even undressing me, turning me into a creature of pure desperation.
Finally, he pulled back, just enough to look at me. His eyes roamed my face, taking in the flush, the parted lips, the pleading in my gaze. "Go to your room," he said, voice steady, though rougher now. "Undress slowly. Think about this. About me. And don't touch yourself. That's mine now."
I nodded, dazed, my body throbbing with unspent need. As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me at the door.
"Lia."
I glanced back, trembling.
"Tomorrow," he promised, echoing the word that had haunted me all night. "I'll decide how much more you can take."
The door closed behind me, and I stumbled to my room on legs that barely held, the ache between my thighs a constant,pulsing reminder of his dominance. Of how badly I wanted—needed—him to break me completely.
9
Ididn’t sleep.
Not in any way that mattered.
My body lay still in the bed, sheets cool and heavy against skin that burned too hot, but my mind never softened. It circled. Returned. Tightened. Every time I drifted toward something like rest, my thoughts snapped back to him like a tether pulled short.
His voice.
His restraint.
The way he had looked at me when he saidtomorrow.
The word had followed me into the dark like a promise and a threat braided together.
By midnight, the ache had stopped being desire and started being something sharper. More physical. A pulse that lived between my thighs, in my ribs, in my throat. It was the awareness of being unfinished. Interrupted. Deliberately left wanting.
I shifted, once, then again, trying to find a position that didn’t remind me of his hands, his breath, the way his presence alone had rewritten my nervous system. It was useless. Even thesheets felt charged, like they remembered what he had done to me and wanted to hold it against my skin.
By three in the morning, I stopped pretending this was just arousal. It was something deeper. Something that felt like anticipation stretched too far, like a wire pulled until it sang.
By dawn, waiting had become excruciating.
When pale light finally crept across the ceiling, I didn’t feel relief. I felt sharpened. Alert. Tuned. As if my body had been holding its breath all night and was finally allowed to inhale.
I sat up slowly, the cold air brushing my skin through thin fabric. Outside, the world was quiet in that uniquely winter way—no birdsong, no wind, just the soft, blank weight of snow holding everything in place.
Yet, I didn’t feel small inside the silence.
I felt claimed by it.
My phone lay untouched on the nightstand. No messages. No instructions. That alone made my pulse shift. He was giving me space.
