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Fuck.

I release his wrists abruptly and push off him. My chest rises and falls heavily, my pulse loud in my ears, my hands flexing at my sides like they don’t know what to do without him in them.

He stays on the floor, staring up at me, breathing hard and ruined.

And God help me, I want to ruin him even more.

The thought strikes without warning, stealing the air from my lungs. It isn’t gentle or romantic. It’s possessive and territorial.

I want to unravel him. I want to be the reason his voice shakes, the reason his composure fractures, the reason he looks at me the way he’s looking at me now, like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.

His gaze drifts down my body slowly as though he has all the time in the world. His eyes trace the tension in my stance, the way my body betrays what my pride refuses to admit. When his gaze settles on the outline of my hard dick straining against my trousers, something in his expression shifts.

Not surprise.

Not embarrassment.

Recognition.

A quiet, lethal sort of triumph.

Slowly, his dark, victorious gaze lifts back to mine.

The air between us grows heavier, charged with awareness. He sees me now, not the polished exterior or the restraint. He sees the hunger I’ve been denying, and instead of recoiling, he leans into it.

That look on his face doesn’t mock me.

It claims me.

“You can hit me. Pin me. Control me…” he says quietly, his voice rough, wrecked. Each word landing like a match against gasoline. “But don’t pretend you don’t want me.”

My jaw tightens.

He shouldn’t say that. He shouldn’t know that. He shouldn’t see that. Because wanting him has always been my greatest weakness.

I exhale slowly, but it does nothing to steady me. Nothing to stop the heat crawling through my bloodstream. Nothing to stop the way my body betrays me.

Fuck it.

My fingers move before I consciously decide to let them. They go to my belt. The sound of the buckle unclasping is deafening in the silence between us.

His breath catches.

I pull the leather free, then slide the zipper down slowly, my eyes never leaving his.

This is a mistake. I know it is.

I know I should stop. I know I should walk away.

But I don’t. Instead, I free my throbbing dick, and the cool air does nothing to quell the fire beneath my skin.

His pupils dilate, and I see his lips part.

He looks hungry.

And God help me—I want to feed him.

“Get on your knees,” I order.