Page 107 of Their Arrangement
“You thought I’d save you?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I thought you’d break me.”
His breath caught. Just for a second.
Then he stepped around in front of me. Pulled the chair away from the desk with one hand and looked down at me like I was a puzzle he’d already solved and just wanted to watch fall apart.
“You want to be broken, Cloe?”
I didn’t speak.
He tilted his head.
“Then stand up.”
I rose.
And that’s when he touched me.
Not my waist. Not my hips. Not anywhere soft.
His hand went to the back of my neck.
Andheld.
Flat palm. Fingers spread. Thumb resting just under the hinge of my jaw.
It wasn’t a caress.
It wasn’t even control.
It wasownership.
A single point of contact that unspooled every lie I’d told myself about what I could handle. About what I wanted. About what I’d survive.
I gasped.
But I didn’t pull away.
His grip wasn’t tight. It didn’t need to be. The weight of it alone made my spine lock, made my thighs press, made my pulse jump in my throat like a warning bell.
And then he stepped in.
His body brushed mine—solid, heat and breath and restraint. His forehead came down to mine.
Our mouths weren’t touching.
But they could have been.
“You don’t get to run anymore,” he said, voice low. “You sent the prayer. Now live in the answer.”
My fingers curled at my sides.
I wanted to reach for him.
Wanted to kneel.
Wanted to beg.
