Page 132 of Their Arrangement
Made me need things I’d buried years ago.
Things I swore I’d never want again—not after Camille. Not after the casket. Not after the world cracked down the middle.
But now?
Now I couldn’t breathe without thinking about her thighs spread.
Her mouth open.
Her eyes wet.
The way she trembled in silence in a chair I didn’t think she could survive.
The silence in the elevator wasn’t stillness. It was punishment. I braced both hands on the mirrored wall. Bent my head. Let my breath fog the glass.
I could’ve had her. I could’ve fucked the easy one. But itwouldn’t be Cloe. Wouldn’t be the lace I wanted to rip. Wouldn’t be the eyes I wanted to watch break. Wouldn’t be the girl I wanted to wreck so thoroughly she forgot who she was without me.
I made it home, dropped my keys, and stared at my phone like it might bite me. Didn’t go for a drink. Didn’t take off my shoes. I just stood in the doorway—still dressed, still hard, still ruined—and let the silence close in like punishment.
The city glowed through the windows, reflecting the shape of my body in the glass. Distorted. Ghosted. Like I was already something else.
Something darker.
I was hard.
Still.
Still.
My cock throbbed against the front of my slacks. Every nerve ending straining for contact. For friction. For fucking release. But I didn’t touch it. Didn’t move. Because I didn’t want release. I wanted damage.
I wanted Cloe on my kitchen counter. Her blouse ripped open. Her skirt shoved past her hips. My hand on her throat. My fingers inside her. Her legs trembling around me while she tried not to cry.
I wanted her ruined.
Not just wet.
Shaking.
Obedient.
Destroyed.
Her contact sat there in my phone.
C. Woods.
No emoji. No title. Just the name. Clean. Sharp.
I hovered over it.
Thumb twitching.
Call her.
Tell her to come here.
Make her kneel and say thank you through clenched teeth while her mascara runs.
