Page 71 of White Noise

He doesn't touch me at first, but he’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off him—a dry, searing heat that smells of lightning. His eyes are dark, possessive, stripped of any pretense of playfulness.

This isn't a game anymore.

It's a fucking claim.

“Looks like you’ve run out of rooms, little echo,” he growls, his voice a low-frequency vibration that makes my chest shudder. He leans in, his lips brushing my ear, his breath hot and electric. “Now, we get to the part where you realize you’re trapped. Tell me to let you go. Say it. Fucking beg me to leave you alone, and if you do it pretty enough, I might just vanish back into the wires.”

I look up at him, my breath coming in ragged hitches.

I know he means it. I can feel the tension in the air, the way the environment is waiting for his command to release me.

I could tell him to stop.

The problem is, he’s standing too close, shirtless, scar cutting through one eye, looking at me like he already knows I’m not going to.

His hand catches the hem of my shirt and gives it a slow tug, not enough to remove it, just enough to make the fabric drag over my skin while his eyes move over me.

“Still want me gone?”

“Fuck you.”

Silas smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

His hand closes around my chin and the second he touches me, the current hits.

It’s not hard. No it’s so much fucking worse.

A low vibration rolls through my jaw and down my throat, spreading under my skin in hot little pulses that make my breath catch before I can stop it.

Silas sees the effect it has on me, and his smile deepens.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “There’s my, little echo.” He turns my face slightly and leans in, dragging his tongue slowly over my cheek.

The contact sends another sharp wave through me, stronger this time, pleasure laced through the static until my knees almost give.

Fuck.

I hate him.

I hate that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Silas pulls back just enough to watch my face.

“Still want to run?”

I stare at him, breathing too hard.

He gives my chin a little squeeze.

“Say it.”

I don’t.

His eyes darken.

“Say you want me to stop.”

The words sit there between us.