Page 64 of When the Storm Breaks
He’s always been controlled, but there’s a restlessness to him now.
I glance up, watching the way he tightens his grip on a glass just slightly before setting it down, the way his fingers flex against the towel like his hands need something to do.
I look back down at my book, but I can’t focus. I can feel every movement, every breath. It’s like the space between us has shrunk, like I’ve moved closer without realizing it.
Why does it feel like I can feel him in my own body?
Haiyden suddenly drops into the chair across from me, the legs screeching against the floor.
“Sorry.” His voice is rough, like he’s already regretting speaking.
His fingers tap against his thigh, then drift up to the back of his neck—a restless movement that draws my eyes to his hands.
His hands.
The same hands that had been wrapped around my throat. Fingers pressing. Testing. Holding me there.
The memory flashes through me like a live wire. The heat of his palms. The slow squeeze. The breath caught in my throat even as I tilted my chin up for more.
I feel it again now, even from across the table.
I shift in my seat, pressing my thighs together.
“Calla.”
His voice barely pulls me back, my body already betraying me.
I look up at him, barely able to meet his eyes. But when I do, there’s something that wasn’t there before—hesitation, uncertainty,guilt.
“Yeah?” My voice comes out quiet.
He leans forward, fingers pressing against the tabletop like he needs something solid beneath them.
“I… I didn’t mean to push you. The other night.”
He looks away, then back at me, like he’s forcing himself to stay present. His voice is steady, but his hands say otherwise.
I stare at him, confused.
Does he think I didn’t want it?
I can feel it now—his body flush against mine, the way he kissed me like he couldn’t stop, like he didn’t want to. His tongue dragging against mine, slow at first, teasing before he tightened his grip and took what he wanted.
What I let him take.
The tears had dried, but I couldn’t ignore the growing wetness between my thighs. The undeniable, unmistakable ache of wanting.
It’s what I would’ve let him take, if he hadn’t stopped.
Would he have let me fall apart in his hands?
Or would he have taken me apart himself?
Would he have pushed me into the seat, climbed over me, his massive body holding me down and pinning me beneath him?
Or pulled me through the passenger door, my back against the cold metal of the car’s frame, my legs wrapped around his waist as he buried himself inside me, right there on the side of the road?
Would he have been gentle, slow, savoring every inch of me?
