Page 117 of Controlled Burn
She slid forward, stood, and shoved the chair back.
“Keep your hands behind your back. Good boys don’t touch.”
Dean nodded, breath shallow. Waiting.
She climbed onto the desk. Slowly. With purpose. Straddled his shoulders and clamped her thighs around his head, locking him there.
“Every breath you take is mine now,” she growled. “Don’t forget that.”
She rode his mouth like revenge—deliberate, wet, and ruthless.
He gasped beneath her, only to be smothered again. His hands fisted in restraint, shoulders trembling, but he didn’t disobey. Her grip on his skull was merciless.
“Look at you,” she hissed, voice hot with control. “On your knees for the same mouth that tells you no.”
He groaned. Desperate. Addicted. Drowning.
She didn’t just want control—she wanted to unmake the rules. To burn them and brand her name in their place.
She came with a cry and didn’t let go.
Only when he sagged—spent, breathless, wrecked—did she release him.
“Get up,” she ordered.
He rose, unsteady, blinking through the haze of his surrender.
“We talk about Brooks tomorrow,” she added. “But tonight… I just needed to take something back.”
Dean nodded. “I’ll follow your lead.”
Her smile was dark. Satisfied.
“You already are.”
She slipped into the hallway like smoke. Untraceable. Unstoppable.
And somewhere in the darkness, behind another door—Jake was still recording.
The faint click of a hidden lens cut through the silence.
Chapter 43
Fuel to Flame
The sting of empowerment faded more quickly than Talia had expected.
It was barely dawn when she let herself feel it—that tight, shivery hum of control still echoing in her skin. The dominance she’d claimed with Elijah. The grip she’d taken on Maddox in the office, when the station was still and everyone else was in bed. For a moment, it had been intoxicating. Hers.
But under the white glare of station fluorescents, it turned to ash in her mouth.
The firehouse buzzed with routine. Boots thudded on tile. Showers hissed. Radios muttered weather and minor calls. Talia moved through it on muscle memory—pour the coffee, check the rig, shoulder into gear. Each action a shield. Each movement crisp, contained, untouchable.
No one questioned her.
But everyone watched.
She felt it in the pauses between conversations. The flick of eyes that snapped away too fast. The silence that followed her was like a cloud of smoke.
