Other Hands

Cherish’s POV


I told myself I was still in control.
After the way Dalton touched me in his office — the slow stroke of his thumb, the heat of his palm just under my breast — I needed proof. Proof that my body still belonged to me. Proof that one older man with cold eyes and dangerous hands hadn’t ruined every other touch.
So I said yes when a guy from my economics class, Ryan, asked me out for drinks.
Ryan was easy. Tall enough, good smile, zero complications. Exactly what I used to want. We met at a bar near campus, loud enough that conversation stayed light. Two drinks in, his hand settled on my thigh. I let it stay. When he leaned in to kiss me, I kissed him back.
It was fine.
Familiar.
Safe.
We ended up at his apartment. The door clicked shut and his mouth found mine again, hungrier this time. I kissed him harder, trying to force something to spark. His hands slid under my shirt, warm and eager, and for a few seconds I almost believed it would work.
Then his palm covered my breast.
The second his fingers brushed my nipple, my entire body locked up.
It wasn’t Ryan I felt.
It was Dalton.
The memory hit so hard it stole my breath — the way Dalton had touched me at the club, slow and precise, like he already knew exactly how much pressure would make my knees weak. The way his voice had dropped when he told me I could come just from his hands. The way my body had answered him without permission.
Ryan’s touch suddenly felt wrong. Too rushed. Too ordinary. My skin crawled with the mismatch.
I pulled back.
“Wait,” I said, voice uneven.
Ryan blinked, breathing hard. “You okay?”
“I can’t.” I stepped out of his arms and fixed my shirt with shaking fingers. “I’m sorry. I just… I can’t do this tonight.”
He looked confused, maybe a little frustrated, but he didn’t push. I grabbed my bag and left before the silence could get worse.
The night air hit me like a slap. I walked fast, jaw tight, furious at myself. One man. One night at a club and a few minutes in an office, and suddenly my body refused to cooperate with anyone else. That wasn’t freedom. That was a problem.
I hated him for it.
The next morning I sat in the back of the lecture hall and tried to disappear.
Dalton walked in wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking calm and completely unaffected. He started the lecture without glancing in my direction, but I felt him anyway. Every time I looked up, his eyes were already on me — steady, unreadable, heavy enough that my pulse jumped.
He didn’t call on me. He didn’t need to. His attention alone was enough to make the fifty-minute class feel like a test I was failing.
When it ended, I packed my things quickly and headed for the door, hoping to lose myself in the stream of students.
I only made it halfway down the empty side hallway before a low voice stopped me.
“Cherish.”
I froze.
Dalton stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, expression cold. The hallway was quiet. No one else around.
“You’re free to sleep with whoever you want,” he said, voice even. “I’ve never claimed otherwise.”
I forced a shrug, trying to look bored. “Then why are you stopping me?”
He walked closer until he stood just in front of me. Close enough that I caught the faint scent of his cologne — the same one that still lived in my head from the club. He didn’t touch me. He just looked down at my face like he could see every lie I was trying to tell.
“You tried last night,” he said quietly. “And you couldn’t do it, could you?”
My stomach dropped.
I opened my mouth to deny it, but nothing came out. The silence stretched, thick and damning.
A small, dark satisfaction flickered in his eyes.
“Good,” he said.
That single word hit harder than if he had raised his voice. He held my gaze for another second, letting the truth settle between us, then stepped back.
“I’ll see you in class, Miss Langford.”
He turned and walked away, footsteps calm and measured, like he hadn’t just ripped the ground out from under me.
I stayed where I was, back against the cool wall, heart slamming against my ribs. My hands were clenched so tightly my nails dug into my palms.
He knew.
Somehow he already knew I had tried to erase him and failed.
And the worst part was the quiet satisfaction in his voice when he said good.
I pressed my lips together and closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. The hallway suddenly felt too small. My skin still remembered the weight of his stare, and somewhere deeper, it still remembered the exact shape of his hands.
I had wanted to prove he didn’t own my body.
Instead I had only proven the opposite.
And from the way he walked away without looking back, he knew it too.