Page 115 of Picture Perfect

And I do. I shatter spectacularly as if shot through with lightning—the raw intensity leaving me helpless as he cradles my convulsing body against his chest with whispered words that sound a lot like love.

His relentless dance continues without a pause—thumb circling that sweet spot, two fingers buried deep inside exploring my wet depths. Every stroke sends a wave of pleasure, each wave more powerful than the last. I moan and squirm under his touch, my body a puppet to his skilled maneuvers.

His fingers plunge deeper, hitting that velvety wall inside me while his thumb presses firmly against my clit. He bites down, his teeth pressing into the skin where my neck meets my shoulder as he squeezes my throat. The combination sends an electric shock through my body, triggering another tidal wave of intense pleasure.

I whimper out his name as another orgasm crashes over me, leaving me panting and spent. But still, Dre doesn't stop; instead he presses gentle kisses along my neck, whispers sweet nothings in the afterglow.

But reality intrudes with the sharp click of my lock, and I jerk in Dre's arms as someone tries to force their way into my sanctuary. The wedge Dre had shoved under the door is an immovable object; it holds firm even as the handle jiggles violently from the outside.

"Adelaide! Open this door right now!" William's voice, always so commanding, now drips with fury.

Fear spikes through me, but it's quickly replaced by a strange sense of safety as Dre's arm tightens protectively around my waist. His anger is a tangible thing, a dark force that rises to meet the threat on the other side of the door. And though the walls seem to shake with William's rage, Dre's presence is a fortress, impenetrable and unyielding.

"Snowflake," Dre says softly, turning my face to his. "No matter what happens, I'm here. You remember that."

His kiss lands on my forehead, a promise and a vow, just as William's shouts echo through the night, a storm raging against the calm Dre and I have found within the eye.

The moment of tranquility shatters as Dre's body tenses like a coiled serpent. He pulls away from me, the warmth of his touch replaced by a sudden chill that seeps into my bones. I watch, heart hammering in my chest, as he fishes out the knife, its blade catching the moonlight sneaking through my curtains.

"Stay here," he growls, low and dangerous, before he storms over to the door.

I can only nod, frozen in place, as he kicks the wedge with brutal force. The door flings open with such violence that it seems to recoil from his fury. In an instant, he's on William, the edge of the storm now inside my room.

"Oh!" I hear myself yell, but it's like my voice comes from somewhere far away.

Dre doesn't even flinch at the sound; his focus is laser-sharp on William. With the knife at William's throat, pinning him against the wall, Dre's body is a shield between me and whatever threat looms in the hallway.

"Listen closely," Dre's voice is a venomous whisper, every word laced with deadly intent. "You're going to step back, turn around, and forget this night ever happened. If you so much as breathe wrong towards her again..."

William tries to respond, a feeble attempt at authority that falls flat in the face of Dre's wrath. But Dre isn't having any of it. His fingers tighten on the handle, the blade pressing just enough to warn without drawing blood.

"She doesn't belong to you anymore. You will not fucking touch her. Or I swear to God they will never find your body. Understand?" Dre demands, and the word is not a question but a command that expects no other answer than silent obedience.

My heart thunders, a chaotic symphony against the backdrop of raised voices and the knife that glints dangerously in Dre's hand. His words should scare me—they're meant to terrify—but instead, they send an unexpected surge of heat through my veins. I'm freaked out, not by Dre himself, but by the fact that this display of violence, this promise of protection, it does something to me.

My breath catches as I watch them, the predator and the prey, locked in a silent battle of wills. It's terrifying—the raw power emanating from Dre, the way he stands ready to strike, to protect, to claim vengeance. And yet, amid the fear, there's an undeniable thrill that courses through me, a dark fascination with the lengths he'd go—to keep me safe, to keep me his.

"You think you can command me in my own home? Do you know who I am? What I'm capable of?" My father's demand slices through the raw energy of the moment, but all I can focus on is the curve of Dre's back, the set of his shoulders as he stands between me and whatever consequence looms beyond that door.

"Stay away from her," Dre commands again, his voice a low growl that seems to resonate with every fiber of my being.

I clasp my hands together, fingernails digging into my skin as I watch, conflicted by fear and fascination. The sick part of me that finds arousal in Dre's dominance is at war with the reasonable side that knows there will be repercussions for tonight—repercussions I'm not sure I have the strength to face. But as I stand there, in the eye of the storm, I realize I'm not afraid of Dre. It's the consequences of his actions that terrify me—the ripples that will spread through my already tumultuous life.

William's body stumbles back from the force of Dre's shove, and I hear him grunt as he regains his footing. The next sound is the solid thud of my bedroom door slamming shut. I watch, almost in slow motion, as Dre jams the heavy wedge back under the door with a swift kick. His movements are precise, efficient, born of an instinctual need to protect.

He turns to face me, his eyes burning fiercely—a stormy blue that seems both violent and tender. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, and there's a resolute firmness in his voice that makes me want to believe him despite everything. "One of us will be here every night. You're not alone anymore. He will never fucking touch you again."

I swallow hard, feeling my heart thunder against my ribcage. Alone has been my reality for so long—it's familiar cold touch wrapped around me like a shroud. Part of me yearns to reach out and grasp the lifeline Dre is throwing, but fear anchors me in place.

"Every night?" My voice is barely above a whisper, laced with the skepticism that has kept me safe until now. "Why? Why would you do that?"

"Because someone has to." His jaw clenches, and I see the protective fury still simmering beneath his skin. "Because you deserve better than what you've been given. Because... fuck, Snowflake, because we care about you, even if you don't understand why."

The idea of it—of not being alone—is intoxicating, and terror grips me because hope is a dangerous thing. It's the light that promises warmth only to burn when you get too close. I've learned that lesson well.

"Snowflake?" Dre steps closer, reaching out as though he wants to pull me into his orbit, away from the doubts and fears that have always haunted me. "Do you believe me?"

I want to. God, how I want to. But belief is a leap, and I've never been good at jumping. "I'm scared," I confess, the words tumbling out, raw and honest. "Scared to hope, scared of what comes next if I do."

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