58

EZRA

When she pulls away, she's panting.

Lips swollen, pink, glistening.

Glossy eyes search mine—half challenge, half plea. Her mouth parts slightly and I have to clench my fists to stop myself from diving back in.

God, she tastes like every cautionary tale I’ve ever ignored.

And I want to get lost in her until there’s nothing left of me to find.

Her gaze flicks between my lips and eyes, lips trembling like she's on the edge of something she can’t take back.

Then she steps back. Just enough to peel off her top.

“Ezra,” she says. My name—barely a whisper. Like it hurts to say it out loud.

I hold my breath, aching at the loss of her warmth, her body against mine. This woman is chaos wrapped in silk. I thought she’d back away. Run. Cry. After seeing the monster in me.

But no.

She unravels.

“Fuck me like you hate me,” she whispers.

She stands there in nothing but her sports bra and pants, and I swear the world tilts.

Her breasts strain against the fabric, curved and full, her waist tapering into soft hips. My eyes fall to the faint scar that cuts across her lower belly—a reminder of what she’s endured, of what she’s given. A son. A family. A life someone else shattered.

I drag my gaze back up, slowly. Her collarbone. Her fluttering pulse. Her long, slender neck. The haunted defiance in her eyes.

I’m hard. Painfully, achingly hard.

But it’s more than that.

It’s reverence. It’s restraint. It’s a fucking war.

"I..." My voice catches like gravel. “Thea…”

She exhales sharply, almost like a laugh, but it’s broken at the edges. Her hands move to her waistband. And then—

She pushes her pants down.

No panties.

No hesitation.

Nothing but a battlefield of emotion standing between us.

And I’ve already lost.

She steps out of them, slow. Controlled. Her head held high like she dares me to look away, like she wants me to see her. All of her. The pain. The courage. The defiance.

God, I’ve never wanted someone this fiercely. Never feared hurting them more.

But I don't move to slam her against the wall or tear her dress or bury myself in her like an animal. Not like I know she wants me to. Not like she thinks she wants. Like she thinks I want.

Instead, I inhale deeply and start popping the buttons of my shirt, one after the other. She stops, staring at me in nothing but her sports bra.

I hold her gaze as I shrug my shirt off and throw it on the floor. Her eyes didn't leave my bare chest but I don't comment.

I know I look good and I don't want to ruin the mood.

And I won't make the same mistake I made the last time—clothed while I fucked her naked. No. That felt like power. Maybe this is surrender. Maybe this is letting her know that I'll kill for her. Maybe this is letting her know that this, isn't love. But something more twisted, more intense.

Obsession. With a side piece of maybe love even if I don't know what that is.

I unbuckle my belt and it drops to the floor with a clang. Then, I unzip my pants and pull it off, leaving me in my boxers.

She gulps audibly.

I say nothing as I stalk towards her, holding my breath. Fuck, I need to touch her. I need to remind myself every moment of this that she's real. And she's mine. And I don't care how many time I have to restart, how many reassurance I need to say and do, how many time I have to sleep in a cramped space just to be near her.

And I cup her face.

Softly. Gently. Like she's made of porcelain.

I press my forehead to her. “No.”

Her lips part. I don't give her the chance to question it.

I claim her mouth.

Not like I hate her.

But like I worship her. Because she's the only symbol closest to a religion I've ever known.