He dragged his wet fingers across my lower lip—smearing my own arousal there—then pushed them into my mouth.
“Suck.”
I obeyed instantly, tasting myself on his skin, hollowing my cheeks around his fingers while his eyes burned into mine.
“Good girl,” he growled. “You taste like surrender.”
He withdrew his fingers, replaced them with his mouth—kissing me hard, tasting me, claiming every whimper I gave him.
When he finally pulled back, I was wrecked—half-undressed, shaking, empty, desperate.
He fixed my panties. Zipped and buttoned my jeans with careful hands.
Then he kissed my forehead—soft, almost reverent.
“Later,” he promised. “When you’ve earned every inch.”
Afterward—ifafterwardwas even the right word—he didn’t release me immediately.
He held me there, chest to my back, one hand braced against the wall beside my head, the other resting possessively at my waist. My breathing slowed. My body buzzed—not spent, not satisfied.
Claimed.
“You feel that,” he said quietly. “The lack.”
“Yes.”
“That’s intentional.”
I turned my head slightly. “You’re cruel.”
His breath warmed my ear. “No. I’m precise.”
He finally stepped back and handed me my sweater. I put it on slowly, hands unsteady. He watched, unashamed.
“Come,” he said when I was done.
This time, he did lead me to the bedroom.
Not the bed.
The window.
He stood behind me, both of us looking out at the snow-covered land.
“This is what you’re stepping into,” he said. “Not just me. The isolation. The focus. The absence of noise.”
“I’m not afraid,” I said.
“I know. That’s the problem.”
He turned me to face him.
“People like you,” he continued, “don’t break because they’re weak. They break because they’ve been strong for too long.”
His hand slid into my hair, gripping—not painfully, but firmly.
“And when you finally let go,” he murmured, “you don’t do it halfway.”
