Page 24 of Controlled Burn
Her thighs pressed together as she relived it—his grip in her hair, the rasp of his voice, the hunger in his kiss. *You’re going to ruin me.* He’d meant it.
And maybe that’s why she couldn’t stop.
Her hand slid beneath her waistband. Her fingers trailed down—hesitant at first—but her body was already aching, already open. She brushed over the soaked cotton between her thighs and hissed, pressing harder, rubbing slow circles until her hips arched into her hand. She bit her lip, hard, to keep quiet—but her mind wasn’t calm at all.
She closed her eyes and let him take shape.
It was chaos. Him. That voice. That body. That moment in the shadows where she hadn’t felt like too much—where she’d felt like just enough.
Where his hands on her skin rewrote every rule she swore she’d follow.
*“You want to be good? Then take it.”*
Her hips lifted. Her breath hitched.
She imagined him walking in. He’d hate this, she thought. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Catching her like this. His jaw was tight. His arms crossed. His cock was already hard in those damn uniform pants.
Would he stop her? Or would he watch? Would he punish her for touching what he already thought of as his? Maybe he’d make her beg before he even laid a hand on her.
Her other hand found her breast, teasing her nipple through the thin tank top. Now she imagined him there—not gentle. Not sweet. But careful in the way only a man starved of softness could be.
Her fingers moved faster, hips rising into the rhythm of her touch. She imagined the rough scrape of his stubble against her neck, the cool bite of his wedding ring branding her skin, his voice harsh and commanding as he drove in deep.
It wasn’t about romance. It was about need. Control. Power. And the way giving it up to him somehow made her feel safe for the first time in years.
The orgasm hit like magnesium—bright, violent, and blinding. Her breath vanished. Her thighs shook. She bit down hard, tasting copper to stay silent. Her body trembled, drawn tight, unraveling in sharp, silent waves.
And when it was over, when her breath came back to her, so did the guilt. The confusion. That dark, quiet place in her chest where her father used to live.
She’d seen the photo on Maddox’s locker—a woman with soft eyes and a little boy in her arms. Talia had stared too long once. Not because she hated her. But because for one hollow second, she wished she were her.
Would her father hate her for craving a man in uniform? Or understand too well why she wanted someone with the weight to hold her still?
She wiped her hand on the blanket and stared back at the ceiling, eyes burning.
What the hell was wrong with her?
Maybe this was what her dad meant all along. That she didn’t have a middle, that love and destruction lived too close together in her chest.
She told herself it didn’t matter. That this wasn’t love, but her body didn’t believe it. Neither did her heart.
She thought about transferring out and requesting a reassignment. It wouldn’t be dramatic. Wouldn’t be messy. Just a quiet step away from temptation.
But the truth? She didn’t want to leave.
Not because of the job. Because of him.
Because some stupid, reckless part of her didn’t want Maddox to *want* her.
She wanted him to *need* her—and she hated herself for it.
She already knew how this story ended.
But that never stopped her from turning the pages anyway.
Chapter 11
The Complaint
