Feel the burn.

Rose’s POV

The question hung in the air like a blade poised at my throat.

“Did it grow in the dark? Did you touch yourself thinking of my praise?”

My breath stopped entirely. The room’s silence rushed in, thick and suffocating. Candle flames froze- Build D/s dynamic slowly with touch, praise, and tension through questions and sensory details.

mid-flicker. Even the hearth seemed to hold its breath, embers glowing like watchful eyes.

I felt the heat of his body behind me—close, but not touching. Waiting. Always waiting for me to give him what he wanted: truth. Complete. Unvarnished. Mine to surrender.

My wolf whined again, high and desperate, pressing against my skin like it wanted to crawl out and bare its belly to him. The suppressants were crumbling faster than ever; I could taste the sweetness rising in the back of my throat, feel it seeping into the air between us like a confession I couldn’t take back. He would smell it. He already did—I saw it in the way his pupils had blown wide, silver rings thin as moon-slivers, storm clouds swallowing light.

“Yes… Jason,” I whispered, the confession scraping raw from my throat. My voice cracked on his name—too intimate, too dangerous in this room where titles were supposed to be armor. “I… I touched myself. Thinking of your voice. Your praise. How it felt when you said I did well. When you called me good girl. I couldn’t stop. I tried, but I couldn’t.”

The admission burned hotter than any touch. Humiliating. Liberating. Terrifying. My thighs pressed together instinctively, the ache between them sharp and undeniable now, slickness gathering despite every effort to clamp down. My cheeks flamed; I couldn’t meet his eyes.

A low sound rumbled from his chest—not quite a growl, not quite approval. Something deeper. Hungrier. Primal. It vibrated through the air and into my bones, making my wolf roll over completely, belly exposed, tail thumping hard enough that I felt the echo in my spine.

He stepped around to face me at last, silver eyes locking onto mine with that unrelenting intensity that made the world narrow to just him. Just this room. Just the space between us shrinking to nothing, charged and electric.

“Good girl,” he said again, softer this time, the words a velvet blade sliding between my ribs and twisting gently. “Honesty is the foundation. Without it, everything else crumbles. And you gave it to me—raw, complete. Beautifully.”

My knees weakened so badly I swayed. My wolf preened shamelessly, a low rumble of satisfaction vibrating through my chest. I hated how much I craved that praise—how it sank into me like sunlight after years in shadow.

He lifted his hand—slow, deliberate, giving me every second to anticipate—and brushed a knuckle along the faint red mark on my jaw. The contact was feather-light, barely there, but it burned hotter than before, sending sparks racing down my neck, across my collarbone, straight to the throbbing ache between my legs.

“You came back early,” he murmured, thumb tracing the line of my throat now, pausing at the frantic flutter of my pulse—he could feel every betraying beat. “Eager. Needy. Tell me, Rose—did the want keep you awake all night? Did you lie in bed aching, fingers between your thighs, whispering my name?”

The explicitness stole my breath. I swallowed hard, throat bobbing under his thumb. “Yes… Professor,” I whispered, the title slipping out in a panicked rush—old habit, safe distance, even here. My cheeks burned hotter. “I mean—Jason. Yes, Jason. I didn’t sleep. I kept… replaying everything. Your voice. Your touch. The way you watched me.”

His mouth curved—small, dangerous, deeply satisfied. A flicker of amusement in those silver eyes at the slip, but no correction. Not yet. “Professor in class,” he said softly, thumb pressing just enough to feel my pulse leap. “Jason here. When we’re alone. Say it again.”

“Jason,” I breathed, the name tasting forbidden and intoxicating. “Yes, Jason.”

“Good girl.” The praise again—deeper this time, roughened at the edges. It hit like lightning straight to my core, making me clench involuntarily.

He stepped back slightly, gesturing to the hard wooden chair with a tilt of his head. “Sit.”

My legs obeyed before my mind fully caught up, lowering me onto the unforgiving seat. The wood bit into my already-bruised thighs immediately—a sharp, familiar reminder of last night’s lesson that made me wince inwardly. Pain flared, but I held posture instinctively now—spine straight as a blade, shoulders rolled back, chin level—because I already knew hesitation cost more than pain. Because some part of me wanted to please him.

Jason remained standing, looming over me with deliberate intimidation. Arms crossed loosely over his broad chest, he studied me like a rare text he intended to annotate in the margins of my skin—every flush, every tremor, every shallow breath catalogued.

“Tonight,” he said, voice calm but laced with unmistakable dark promise that sent fresh shivers cascading down my spine, “we add proximity. You will hold perfect stillness while I touch. You will not move unless I explicitly permit it. You will not speak unless I demand it. You will breathe only on my direct instruction. And you will answer every question with complete, unflinching truth—no omissions, no pretty lies to shield yourself.”

My heart hammered so hard my vision pulsed at the edges. Sweat prickled anew along my hairline. I nodded once, small and shaky.

“Words, Rose.”

“Yes, Jason,” I whispered, voice trembling but clear.

Satisfaction flickered in his eyes—brief, hot, predatory.

He moved closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Until his knees brushed mine. Until his scent drowned me completely—pine, smoke, winter steel, and that deeper alpha musk that made my head spin. Until the heat radiating from his body pressed against my front like a physical, claiming weight.

His hand lifted again.

Knuckles grazed my jaw—slow, deliberate—then trailed down the side of my throat in a burning, possessive line. Not caressing tenderly. Mapping. Claiming territory with ruthless precision.

“You feel that?” he asked softly, voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and into mine.

“Yes, Jason,” I breathed, voice trembling uncontrollably now.

“That’s presence under pressure,” he continued, thumb settling at the hollow of my throat, pressing just enough to feel my frantic pulse racing beneath. “Raw alpha presence demanding space in your body, your mind, your wolf. And you’re going to hold perfectly still inside it—no visible trembling, no inward retreating, no chasing my touch like a needy pup.”

His hand slid lower—over my collarbone with agonizing slowness, pausing at the top button of my shirt. He didn’t undo it. Just rested there, heat seeping through fabric, thumb brushing the hollow of my throat in tiny, deliberate circles that made my breath stutter.

“Breathe now.”

I inhaled sharply, chest expanding until the shirt pulled taut.

“Hold it.”

Lungs burned instantly. Vision spotted at the edges.

“Count to eight in your head. Feel the burn.”

I obeyed, wolf whining in protest as oxygen deprivation sharpened every sensation—his scent, his heat, his thumb on my pulse.

“Exhale slowly. Control every second.”

Relief flooded me, bittersweet and brief, warred immediately with fresh tension as I awaited the next command.

Minutes stretched into eternity—agonizing, exquisite. His hand moved with excruciating, deliberate slowness: tracing the line of my collarbone, down the center of my chest, stopping just above my breastbone where my heart thundered visibly against his palm. Never crossing into overt indecency. Always controlled. Always pushing the razor edge further.

Sweat beaded along my hairline, trickled slowly down my temple and along my jaw. Muscles screamed from sustained posture—back aching, thighs trembling visibly now, the bruise from last night flaring with every shift I didn’t allow myself. The ache between my legs sharpened to a relentless throb, slickness gathering until I feared it would soak through.

He noticed everything—of course he did.

“Good,” he murmured at last, fingers splaying wide over my sternum, feeling the frantic thunder of my heart directly. “You’re holding beautifully. But I can smell the want pouring off you now—sweet, ripe, impossible to hide. Tell me—what does your body want right now? Be specific.”

The question struck like a spark to dry tinder. My voice emerged rough, broken from strain and need. “It wants… more touch,” I gasped. “Your hands lower. Closer. Inside my shirt. On my skin. It wants you to… to press harder. To make the ache stop… or worse.”

“And your wolf?” he pressed, voice dropping to a velvet growl, thumb circling my pulse point possessively.

“It wants to bare its throat completely,” I confessed, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes from the intensity. “To submit fully. To roll over and beg. To please you until you growl approval again.”

His eyes flared dramatically, pupils swallowing almost all silver. A low, rolling growl rumbled in his chest—approval, raw hunger, restraint barely leashed by iron will.

“Truth,” he praised softly, voice roughened with his own tension now. “Beautiful, brutal truth. You’re giving it freely tonight.”

His hand slid to my waist—fingers splaying wide and possessive over my shirt, thumb brushing the edge of my ribcage in slow, deliberate circles that sent fresh sparks skittering. Heat pooled low and insistent, slickness gathering until my thighs clenched harder, trembling visibly. My wolf rumbled deep approval, pressing harder against my skin like it wanted to shift and present.

“Still,” he reminded sharply when I swayed fractionally toward him—voice a velvet command edged with steel. “Lock it down. Feel the want without chasing it.”

I locked every muscle with desperate effort, trembling violently now, sweat dripping freely down my spine.

Time warped again into endless torment. His touch explored with ruthless patience—waist to hip, up my side brushing the edge of my breast accidentally-on-purpose, back to throat where he pressed just enough to feel my swallow—always deliberate, always restrained to the very edge, always pushing further into the fire. Every point of contact a test I barely passed, breath ragged when permitted, body screaming for release I wasn’t allowed.

At some point—when I thought I might actually shatter from the strain, tears tracking silently down my cheeks—he leaned in close, mouth brushing the shell of my ear, breath warm and deliberate.

“What do you feel now, Rose?” he asked, voice a velvet growl that vibrated straight to my core. “Every layer. Don’t hold back.”

“Burning,” I gasped, barely holding posture, voice breaking on a sob. “Alive like never before. Terrified I’ll break. Desperate for more—for you to push harder, to take more. Wanting… everything you’ll give. Please, Jason—”

The plea escaped before I could stop it.

He withdrew instantly, stepping back with controlled precision. The sudden absence ached like a physical wound—cold rushing in where his heat had been, leaving me swaying dangerously, body trembling from sustained tension and unresolved, screaming need.

“Enough for tonight,” he said, voice roughened at the edges with his own restraint, eyes dark and stormy. “You did well. Better than yesterday—stronger, more honest. You pleased me deeply.”

I swayed, dizzy with withdrawal, tears still falling silently, body shaking from head to toe.

He caught my chin gently—thumb stroking once, softly, possessively along the wet track of a tear. “Go now. Reflect on this edge. Tomorrow we push further. Closer. Until the want becomes something you can’t hide—even from yourself. Until you beg properly.”

I dressed with violently shaking hands—jacket heavy as lead over sweat-damp skin, boots clumsy on numb feet. Every movement felt watched, measured, catalogued for future lessons.

At the door, my hand trembled on the knob, vision blurred.

“Rose.”

I turned, heart leaping.

His voice was softer now, almost gentle—yet no less commanding, no less laced with dark promise. “You’re learning beautifully. And you’re mine to teach.”

The words branded deeper than any touch—permanent, searing.

I fled into the cold corridor, wolf howling silently in triumph, terror, and insatiable, shameful hunger.

Already counting hours until tomorrow.

Already craving the deeper fall—the begging, the breaking, the everything he’d promised.