Page 116 of Controlled Burn
Boots silenced.
Even the rigs slept.
Talia crept through the halls like smoke—silent, sure, sharp at the edges. She waited until the others were tucked in, radios low, whispers replaced with snores and nightmares.
Then she opened the captain’s office door.
Dean was inside—jacket slung over the chair, shirt rumpled, eyes dark from lack of sleep. He didn’t speak when he saw her. Didn’t need to.
She closed the door behind her.
Locked it.
Her breath caught—but not from fear.
From the thrill of choosing this.
Of reclaiming the game.
She walked to his desk and sat in his chair. Slowly. Deliberately. Legs parted just enough to make his mouth go dry.
“I’m not broken,” she said softly. “You don’t have to rescue me.”
“I know,” he murmured. “You never needed saving.”
She leaned forward. “But you needed reminding.”
Dean swallowed.
She nodded at the desk. “On your knees.”
He hesitated only a second before obeying—first one knee, then the other, hands braced on the floor. His chest burned with humiliation and relief, a strange freedom in surrender. He wanted this—her command, her control—because it quieted everything else.
Talia slid her boot forward, pressing the toe into the top of his thigh. “You think this gives you power?”
His head bowed. “Yes,” he whispered, reverent.
“Say it.” Her voice was low, stripped of mercy.
“You do,” he rasped, eyes lifted just enough to catch hers.
She leaned forward, fingers curling under his chin, tilting his head until he couldn’t look away. “Good boy.”
No gentleness. No invitation. She unzipped her pants, one hand disappearing into her underwear, finding bare skin slick with need. She drew her finger out, moisture gleaming in the dim light.
“Open.”
His lips parted immediately, tongue flicking out to taste her.
He worshiped her—tongue tracing the length of her finger, hot and insistent. She steadied herself against the edge of the desk, hips pulsing with the rhythm of his ministrations. Each flick of his tongue sent shivers through her pelvis, her breath catching in her throat.
For a flash, her mind flicked back to Elijah—his tongue, his surrender, the way she’d left him shaking in the bay. Now Dean was beneath her, the same position, the same obedience. Two men bent to her body in the span of days. If only for a few minutes, she owned them. And God, the power of that burned hotter than the shame.
Because this wasn’t about want. It was about taking back the narrative.
“This is mine,” she breathed, voice raw. “Not yours. Not Brooks’s. Not anyone’s but mine.”
He moaned around her finger. She felt the vibration through her hipbone, that deep, wordless hum of submission.
