I don't move. I let his gaze take its time, dragging over me in a way that makes my skin prickle everywhere it lands.
He finally says in a weak tone, "You shouldn't be here."
"I know," I answer softly, falling into theinnocent virgin with the forbidden, older manrole.
"That doesn't make this okay." His jaw tightens, but he takes a step closer.
"I know," I offer, my breath hitched and coming out in a hush.
Every inch he closes sets my nerves on fire. My body leans toward him without permission, like it's already decided whose gravity it belongs to.
He gently asserts, "I think you're confused, Bluebird."
"I'm not confused," I say, my voice steadier than my insides. "I'm ready now."
His gaze snaps to mine. "You're ready when I say you are."
I exhale slowly, the breath shaking as it leaves me. I reach for him, my hand trembling and landing on his bicep.
Control blossoms with hunger, burning in his irises to the point he looks possessed. The moment I see it in his gaze, something inside me locks into place.
Control isn't supposed to look like hunger. I know that. And I've seen Red controlled too many times where he's cool, distant, and composed to the point of cruelty.
This is different. This is our future burning so hot, it sharpens instead of containing itself, lighting the edges of every nerve ending I have.
And I did that.
The realization hits first in my chest, a slow, spreading warmth that steadies me instead of rattling me. Whatever doubt livedthere evaporates. I'm not imagining this or projecting. I reached something real in him, and it's something he doesn't hand out lightly. He usually keeps it locked behind rules and restraint.
Right now, his look tells me I've been allowed in.
My thoughts narrow, laser-focused. The room fades at the edges. There's no space left for second-guessing or fear. Just the knowledge that I'm standing in front of a man who wants control badly enough to hunger for it, and I'm what he wants to control.
My body reacts without warning. Heat unfurls low and slow, with heavy purpose, then settles exactly where it belongs. My muscles soften without me meaning for them to, even as something deep inside tightens and coils, bracing for impact that hasn't happened yet.
My breath shortens, not because I'm overwhelmed but because my body is preparing and making room. It opens in a way that doesn't make me vulnerable, but receptive, tuned, and more awake than ever.
He slides his knuckles down my cheek.
Tremors hit me so fast, I close my eyes, pressing my palm against his beating heart.
Air thickens against my skin. Every inch of fabric suddenly registers, every seam and brush too noticeable, like my nerves have been turned up just to prove a point. A faint tremor runs through me, subtle but undeniable, the kind that comes from holding too much energy in one place.
I don't want to move. That's the part that surprises me most. That look in his eyes doesn't make me want to escape or distract or tease my way out of it. It makes me want to stay exactly whereI am. To let him see what his control does to me. To let him understand that I'm not shaken.
I'm ready.
I meet his gaze and don't look away. Inside, a thrill blooms quietly and dangerously, with knowledge I've stepped into something that won't let either of us pretend anymore. But I want him to take responsibility for that just as much as I do.
His expression casts shadows from a darkness so alluring that another wave of endorphins washes over me. The faint trace of his cologne wafts between us. My skin hums, my body buzzing like it's been wound too tight for too long.
He murmurs, "You have no idea what you're doing to me, Bluebird."
I tilt my head back slightly, exposing my throat, my body arching toward him instinctively. "I do."
His hand lifts, hovering inches from my arm, fingers flexing like he's fighting the urge to touch. His restraint is almost worse than contact.
My breath stutters. The air, fabric, and the space between us electrifies hotter.
