The door clicked shut behind you.

You barely looked up — only catching a glimpse of dark hair, a lean, muscular body, and the glint of a familiar chain on his bare chest. He sat on the edge of the bed in the guest room, lips slightly parted, hair dishevelled as if he had been waiting for you.

He didn't say a word. And that was fine. Tonight you didn't need words.

First your jacket hit the floor. Then your shirt. A slow, deliberate slide of fabric over skin like a silent challenge. He watched, jaw tight, eyes tracking every line of your body like a spark catching.

You climbed onto his lap, settling over him without hesitation. His hands rose along your thighs — firm, sure. Possessive.

you murmured against his lips.

A sharp inhale. And no answer.

He leaned back, letting you sink down against him. You kissed — hot, messy.

Your moan was soft, sweet, broken —

That's when his grip tightened. Fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place. He pulled back just enough to speak, voice low, dangerous, vibrating against your skin.

Your whole body went still. But his mouth didn't stop. He sank you down again, slow and deliberate, making you feel every ounce of that mistake while his hands kept you from moving an inch.

Then he stops. Entirely. And reaches for the lamp.