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One knee slides between my thighs to pin my hips. One hand catches both my wrists and presses them down near my head. His other palm braces beside me for balance.
His black hair falls slightly out of place. His breathing is barely elevated, and I buck under him.
He doesn’t move, so I try again, harder.
Still nothing.
“Oh, fuck you,” I snap, twisting beneath him.
His head tilts. “I’d love that.”
My thoughts scatter like startled pigeons. There isn’t a single coherent one left, just a rapidly escalating series of increasingly violent suggestions. “Get off.”
Instead of obeying, he looks down at me for a long second, the black of his eyes swallowing what little composure I have left, and then his free hand rises.
Slowly.
Giving me time to see it.
To dread it.
To want it anyway.
His fingertips brush my cheek, tracing the line of my face like he’s relearning it.
I go still despite myself.
There’s something deeply wrong with how quickly my body understands his touch now. The anger stays, but beneath it is that same helpless tightening under the skin every time he decides to put his hands on me like I belong somewhere in his grip.
His thumb drags just under my eye, then along my jaw, and pauses at my mouth.
“I want to draw you again,” he says quietly.
The words drop straight into my stomach. I shouldn’t let that get to me. He is an artist. He probably tells every girl he meets that he wants to draw her. I’m hardly special.
I jerk under him, trying to throw him off.
His knee presses more firmly between my thighs, anchoring me to the mat with ease, and his hand forces my wrists down harder over my head.
“I told you to get off me.”
“No.”
It slices right through my protest like it was never important to begin with.
I stare up at him, breathing hard, every muscle in my body strung so tight I feel carved out of wire. His hand cups my jaw this time, turning my face slightly to the side the way he did that first day under the tree, and the memory of it hits so hard my stomach knots.
“Hm,” he murmurs, studying me. “You’re so beautiful.”
My face burns, and I writhe again, more out of principle than hope. “I’ve seen my reflection. This isn’t breaking news.”
His thumb presses lightly into my lower lip, and every thought I have disintegrates.
“Stay still,” he says.
His calm authority makes my nervous system collapse in on itself like a dying star.
I suck in a breath through my nose and tremble with the effort of resisting him.
