Page 15 of Third

“I chased you through the woods,” he murmured. “Watched your hips sway as you tried to escape. You did not run fast. You wanted me to follow.”

Her mouth wentdry.

“You wanted to be caught.”

She should push him away. Scream. Shove her wayout.

But a deeper part of her wanted to see what would happen if she didn’t. She stood suspended in the storm of him, body frozen, breath caught, craving rising despite every warning her mind tried to scream.

The bracelet flared with heat at her wrist, and she gasped—because it wasn’t just his need now. It was hers. Amplified. Heightened.

Arousal spilled into her system like liquid fire. Her skin felt too tight, her breath too shallow, every nerve in her body lighting up like a live wire. It was overwhelming, addictive, terrifying—and somehow exactly what she wanted. Her body answered his without hesitation, her core clenching with a desperate ache she couldn’t suppress. She’d never felt anything like it. Not even close.

“I caught you, trapped you,” he continued, his lips coasting over her temple. “Slid my hand between your legs while you begged me not to stop. Istripped you bare and pressed you up against a tree.”

His hand found the hem of her shirt.

She should stop him. She knew that. Every rational voice in her head screamed that this was too much, too fast, too dangerous. But another voice—just as loud, just as primal—urged him on. She didn’t want him to stop. Not when her body felt like it might combust without him. Not when everything in her ached for the press of his hands, the force of his need. Her heart thudded painfully, torn between fear and craving, but she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t.

“I can show you what I did to you,” he whispered.

She didn’t sayyes.

But she didn’t say no, either. Deep down, buried under fear and reason, was the part of her that had already made the decision. The part that wanted to know what it felt like to be wanted, to be claimed, to belong to something—to someone—who saw her as necessary. That part whispered louder than the rest. And in that breathless pause between thought and action, she gavein.

In a swift, fluid motion, he yanked the shirt over her head and dropped it to the floor. The air hit her skin, cool against the heat that was blooming inside her. Her nipples tightened. Her thighs clenched. She felt exposed and branded by hisgaze.

He spun her to face thewall.

“Hands,” hesaid.

She braced her palms against the metal. It was cold—shocking against her overheated skin, aharsh reminder of reality against the fevered haze of the moment. The contrast only made her shiver harder, nerves firing as though his touch had fused into the wall itself.

His body pressed in behind hers, solid and hot. His hands dragged down her sides, palms exploring every curve—her ribs, her hips, the underswell of her breasts. He cupped them, thumbs flicking across her nipples. She let out a low, shuddering cry, unable to stop herself.

“I remember how you sounded,” he murmured, mouth close to her ear. “In the dream. Moaning for me.”

One hand drifted lower, dragging slowly over the curve of her waist, the dip of her stomach, then lower still, tracing a path down the inside of her thigh before sliding back up with tormenting slowness. Each inch he covered ignited a fresh cascade of heat under her skin. She whimpered before she could stop herself, her body arching slightly into the promise of his touch. It was maddening—the control he had, the control she gave him. And God help her, she wantedmore.

She bit her lip, her breath caught in her throat.

“Open for me,” he ordered, nudging her feet apart with hisown.

Her breath hitched. She obeyed.

He slid his hand between her legs. Found her slick. Groaned against herneck.

“You are wet for me.”

Two fingers slid into her, slow and deliberate, filling her as his palm pressed against her clit. She arched into him with another whimper. His other hand wrapped around her body again, tracing lazy circles over her breast, thumb scraping the peaked tip until her knees threatened to giveout.

The bond surged. Pleasure crashed into her like a shockwave—not just hers, but his. His hunger. His satisfaction at finding her this way. His desperate need for her. It was all-consuming, raw and wild, and it poured through the bond into her, making it impossible to separate where his desire ended and hers began.

Part of her still clung to the edge of reason, knew this was dangerous, that she should resist. But the rest of her—every trembling inch—ached for more. Needed more. And she was losing the fight not to give in completely.

Her hips rolled against his hand, chasing every stroke with a desperate hunger she no longer tried to hide. Her moans spilled out, louder, broken, each one a confession she couldn’t hold back. The sound embarrassed her and thrilled her in equal measure, astrange vulnerability blooming inside her even as she chased the next wave of sensation.

There was something unspoken in every cry, something wild and exposed—as if giving herself to him like this meant more than just pleasure. It meant surrender. She was past the point of shame, past thought, past fear—just heat and need, her body screaming for him to finish what he started.

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