Emma:
I don’t dare breathe.
Not when he’s looking at me like that—like he’s already got my body mapped out, like he knows which places will make me gasp and which will make me break. Like he could tear me apart or put me back together with the same hands.
My wrists are exactly where he left them.
Above my head. Open. Helpless.
And I’ve never felt more exposed in my life.
His knuckles drag down my stomach again, slow enough to make something inside me twist so tight it hurts. Every inch he touches lights up like sparks under skin. Every inch he doesn’t touch feels unbearably empty.
“Good girl,” he murmurs again, and God—my body reacts like the words are a hand around my throat.
My breath stutters. My thighs squeeze together.
He notices. Of course he does.
His smirk is slow, dark,
