I smile into the camera slowly tilting my head, and letting my hair fall forward over one shoulder, the light catching the dip ofmy collarbone and the smattering of freckles across my chest at the same time.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Pinching one of my nipples, tugging the piercing, I watch his eyes flash with hunger before he adjusts himself. The glint of his watch against his forearm, shirt sleeves rolled up and tie hanging loose around, his neck has more of an affect on me than I’ll ever admit aloud.
His gaze sharpens, and I see the shift—possessiveness sliding back over him like a second skin. “Don’t tease me too much,” he warns, but his words are missing their usual bite, instead softened by the way he lets out a shaky exhale. “You know what that does to me.”
“I do,” I whisper, because try as I might, I’ve never been able to forget a single detail about Matthew O’Malley.
Not the way he smells, like sin and regret rolled into one forbidden package; or the way he held me as if he was afraid I’d float away if he let go for a second. And definitely not the things he taught me about building anticipation. I let my hand travel, slow and calculated, the camera swallowing each inch like a promise. For a beat, the only sound is my breath and the faint whir of his laptop. For a beat, it’s just the two of us, and nothing else matters.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs, the command almost tender. His gaze doesn’t waver. “And cut the act, baby. I want the real you.”
The words hit low, a slow ache curling through me. I try to breathe past it, to slip into the role that usually saves me, but the look in his eyes makes it impossible. He sees too much, strips too deep.
My body heats with the memory of his mouth, the taste of him, the sounds he made when I had his cock in my mouth.And now, with just a few quiet words, he’s the one doing the unravelling.
“You already have her,” I confess before I can stop myself. The words slip out raw, stripped of every practiced edge. “You always did.”
His eyes darken, but he waits—silent, patient, pulling the truth from me without touching a thing.
“I need you to make everything else fade into the background,” I breathe. “I need to think clearly… to stop obsessing over things I can’t control.”
Saying it aloud is a gamble—because every honest thing between us has always led somewhere dangerous—but he looks at me like he’s already charted the way through. Like he knows where the ground gives and where it holds. Like if I let go, if I give him the reins just once more, he won’t let us crash.
And God help me, I want to believe him. I want to trust that his hands won’t slip this time.
But trusting him means stepping off the edge again—eyes open, heart exposed—and I don’t know if I’d survive another fall. Not like the last one.
For a moment, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, hell, I don’t think either of us even breathe. Then he leans in so close I can count the freckles across the bridge of his nose, see how his eyes have darkened by a shade or two, how the light cuts sharp across his jaw.
He holds my gaze, steady and unflinching, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a low promise.
“Then let me be the thing that doesn’t disappear when the noise comes back.”
The words don’t land like a seduction. They land like a vow.
Something in my chest gives—just a fraction—but it’s enough. Enough to loosen my shoulders, enough to stop bracing for the moment he’ll pull away, or push too hard, or vanish like everyone else eventually does.
I swallow, pulse thudding loud in my ears. “That’s a dangerous ask,” I murmur, trying for lightness and failing.
His mouth curves, but there’s no triumph in it, only patience. “I know.”
And somehow, that’s what ruins me.
He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t bark orders. Just watches—really watches—as I shift, as I let myself lean back a little, testing the space between us.
“So,” I say softly, a challenge threading through the lingering ache in my voice. “You think you can make the world disappear?”
His eyes drag over me with deliberate slowness, a silent dare that hits harder than anything he could say. The weight of it settles over my skin, coaxing a reaction I can’t quite hide. It’s a challenge, and God help me, I want to take it.
“I know I can,” he rasps. “But only if you stop hiding from me.”
The shift in him is subtle but unmistakable—the tenderness giving way to something heavier, hungrier.
“Lose the mask, baby,” he says, voice roughening, desire threading through every word. “Let me see that pretty face. That’s my girl.”
My breath stutters, fingers already lifting as if my body made the decision before my mind could catch up.
“Now,” he continues, low and intent, “let’s get rid of that bra. Massage those tits for me. I know they’re aching for attention.”
