Page 95 of The Thief

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"I—"

"Say it."

But she can’t.

Not because she doesn’t want to.

Because she does.

Because she wants this.

"I'm scared," she says, voice breaking.

"Good. Then let me show you."

I kiss her hard—brutal, claiming—swallowing her fear, her hesitation, her last shred of resistance. She kisses me back with everything she’s got. Starved. Desperate.

When I release her wrists, her hands go to my hair, yanking me closer like she never wants me to stop.

"Freddie," she gasps.

"What do you want?"

"You," she breathes. "I want you."

"All of me?"

"Especially the parts that scare me."

Something breaks in me then. That tight coil of control? Gone. I tear the shirt from her body, mine, still clinging to her like it belongs there, and I lose whatever hold I had left.

"Mine," I snarl. "You’re mine. You hear me?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I’m yours," she breathes.

"Louder."

"I’m yours, Freddie. All yours."

That undoes me.

But I don’t give her what she wants. Not yet.

I take her apart slowly, deliberately, fingers and mouth driving her to the edge over and over. Every time she starts to shake, every time her body tenses and that final gasp starts to rise, I stop.

"No," I say, firm. "Not yet."

"Please—"

"Please, what?"

"Don’t stop. Freddie, please—I need?—"

"I know what you need. You trust me to give it to you?"

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