She knew.
Futility had a taste, apparently. Bitter enough to swallow pride, sharp enough to cut through denial, heavy enough to pin someone in place more effectively than hands ever could.
I folded the jeans precisely. Set them aside on a chair she couldn't reach without going through me.
When I looked back, she was still crying without letting the tears fall.
Still hating me with everything she had.
Still mine.
"Take off your underwear."
The air between us went electric when she spat, "Go fuck yourself."
I didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just let the words hang there, raw and reckless, while her chest heaved like she’d run a mile.
Then I reached for the steak knife.
The blade caught the candlelight as I lifted it; the edge gleaming like a promise. Her breath hitched. Not fear—not yet—but something sharper, something that made her thighs press together just a little tighter.
I didn’t rush. Let her see it coming. Let her feel the weight of the moment, the way her pulse jumped in her throat, the way her fingers twitched against the table like she was fighting the urge to cover herself.
The knife slid under the waistband of her underwear, cold metal against warm skin. She went still. Not daring to breathe. Not daring to move.
One slow cut.
The fabric gave way with a whisper, the sound too quiet for how final it was.
I didn’t tear. Didn’t rip.
Just let the blade do the work, peeling the last barrier away like unwrapping something precious.
Her breath came faster now, shallow little gasps that made her ribs flutter. I dropped the ruined scrap of lace to the floor and stepped back just enough to look.
Fuck.
She was perfect.
Pink and flushed and mine, even if she’d rather die than admit it. The sight of her pussy hit me like a punch to the gut—hard, instant, undeniable. My cock thickened, pressing against my zipper, demanding more than just looking.
I exhaled through my nose, forcing myself to stay still.
To savor it.
Because this wasn’t about taking.
This was about proving.
And Belle Reiss was about to learn exactly how little her defiance mattered when I decided something was mine.
The floor was cold against my knees, but I didn’t care. The heat of her—fuck, the scent of her—washed over me like a drug, sweet and musky and so goddamn hers it made my head spin. I breathed her in deep, letting it fill my lungs, my skull, my goddamn soul, and the groan tore out of me before I could stop it. Raw. Hungry. The sound of a man who’d just found something he’d been starving for without knowing it.
Her thighs trembled around my shoulders.
I could feel her pulse hammering through the soft skin of her inner thighs, fast and frantic like a trapped bird’s. My hands slid up, fingers digging in just enough to hold her open, to keep her open, because I wasn’t done looking. Wasn’t done breathing her in.
A broken little sound escaped her—half sob, half gasp—and then, so quiet I almost missed it, "Please."
