Anticipation tastes like copper on the tongue; it hums in the bones, invisible but undeniable. I could feel it vibrating through Cheyenne as she settled against me, warm and trusting, her breath unsteady against my throat. She thought the decision was over because she had made one—stay. She thought the next steps would be inevitable, a straight descent into heat and surrender. The truth was simpler, and crueler: inevitability is a lie I let other men believe. Control means I decide when the fuse is lit.
I brushed my fingers through her hair, slow, patient strokes that calmed the tremor in her shoulders. Outside, the city cast its glittering net across the river; inside, candlelight pulled soft gold over skin and glass. She didn’t speak, and I didn’t ask her to. Silence is a language. Toni
