Page 15 of Major Penalty

She’s not stepping back. She’s not scared. She’s worried.

And I don’t like the way that makes my stomach twist.

“Show me where it hurts, Ares.” She moves even closer, her voice lower now. Like she’s speaking to a frightened child. I know that tone of voice. I’ve heard it a thousand times. I heard it whenever a new caseworker was sent to work with me. I expect her tone to send me back to that dark place, but instead, I find myself leaning into it, wanting to show her exactly where it hurts. And it’s not my fucking hip.

And then she reaches for me like she actually thinks I’ll let her touch me right here and get away with it.

Big mistake.

My fingers snap around her wrist as I grip it. Not enough to hurt butenough to startle her.

Her breath hitches, and the defiant look leaves her face.

Hello again, little thing.

Her pulse pounds too fast against my fingertips.

I tilt my head, dragging my gaze over her face. Wide eyes framed by long lashes and full parted lips. God, she’s fucking mesmerizing.

“You want me to show you where it hurts?” My voice comes out low and dark.

She swallows, her slender throat working up and down. Her chest rises and falls with each shallow breath she takes.

“Let go,” she whispers.

I don’t. Instead, I let my impulses drive me and tighten my grip just a little.

My eyes are locked on hers, expecting to see panic in them. But she doesn’t look scared. No, instead of panic, there’s fire in her eyes as her pupils dilate.

And I want to fucking stoke it. I should let go. Again, I don’t. Instead, I drag her hand slowly. And she lets me, not taking her eyes off mine. I guide her hand lower until her fingers barely graze my waistband right above my right hip.

That’s where it hurts, sweet thing.

Her lips part even more, and her breathing shudders. And then I lean down until my mouth is just inches from her ear, until I can hear the way her breath falters.

“Don’t try to touch me without my permission again,” I murmur.

Not because I don’t want her to. But because I’m scared of what I’ll do if she does. I’m barely holding onto my self-control without her hands on me.

She doesn’t move, snatch her hand back, or step away.

She just stands there, frozen, breath shuddering, her fingers on my waistband.

I let the silence stretch, let it wrap around her throat like a collar.

She swallows. Her lashes flutter. Her fingers twitch against my skin like she’s debating pressing them against me more.

That’s what does it. I can’t be in here with her. She needs to get the hell away from me before I subject her to everything I want to do to her. She’s too gentle, too sweet. She’s too…not for me. But fuck if that doesn’t make me want her even more.

She exhales, sharp and unsteady.

“You’re being extremely unprofessional,” she murmurs, breathy and weak.

“Mm,” I hum, leaning in. “Am I?”

I slowly let my fingers slide down, grazing over her knuckles and tracing the back of her hand.I want to see how much she’ll let me get away with.

And fuck me, she doesn’t pull away. I’m not holding her wrist anymore, yet her hand stays in place. I feel her fingers twitch again, just barely, like she’s resisting the urge to move. Like some part of her wants to touch me back.

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