She turned away from me, clutching the blanket like a shield, twisting her fingers into the fabric as if it could protect her from me. Her shoulders were stiff, her breath shallow, her long hair falling over one side like a dark river she could hide behind.

Tonight the sheets were black.

My color.

My territory.

My mood.

And she’d chosen it — out of all the safe whites and creams she usually hides behind — she’d chosen black.

My black.

As if the darkness could shelter her from me.

As if she didn’t realize I *was* the darkness.

I slipped under the blanket, completely naked, letting the heat of her body hit me first — warm, trembling, defiant. She went rigid the second she felt me behind her, as if her spine fused into steel.

“Loosen yourself,” I murmured, my voice low, rough, scraping along her skin like something dangerous dragging its claws across her nerves.

She whipped her hair back — furious, emotional — and the ends lashed across my face like a slap.

I let out a slow breath, a dark huff of amusement.

“Thanks to your hair, you got your revenge.”

She only clutched the blanket tighter, knuckles whitening, like she thought fabric could keep me out.

My jaw flexed, a muscle jumping. Cold calculation slid into me like a second skin. I wrapped my arm around her waist and pulled her back into me — not violently, not gently, but with the kind of deliberate force that told her escape was an illusion.

Her back collided with my chest, her warmth soaking into my bare skin.

Her gasp was sharp.

Her fear was sharper.

I dipped my face into the crook of her neck, her hair brushing against my mouth.

God.

Her scent — soft, feminine, intoxicating — crawled straight into my head, rattling every restraint I had left.

I tightened my hold and rolled her onto her back. A slow, controlled movement — one she couldn’t stop even with both hands braced against my chest. Her fingers trembled, pushing uselessly, her breaths coming too fast.

Her front pressed against mine now, heat to heat, soft to hard, fragility to madness.

My fingers slid into her hair, gripping, tilting her face up. I didn’t yank.

I didn’t have to.

Pressure was enough.

Control was enough.

She felt small under my hand. Fragile. Breakable.

And it set my blood on fire.

I lowered my mouth to hers.

She turned her face at the last second, but I followed — slow, merciless — catching her lips and sealing her protest with a kiss that was both a claim and a warning.

Her hands pushed at my torso, fingers trembling in panic or anger or both. But she couldn’t get away — not from the weight of my half-pinned body, not from the heat, not from the truth tightening around us like a rope.

Her lips were reluctant, soft but resisting — and God, that resistance made everything inside me twist and sharpen. I angled her head deeper into the pillow, my kiss deepening, devouring the little breaths she tried to take.

She tasted like fear and challenge.

And she made me hungrier.

I bit her lower lip, not hard enough to hurt but enough to remind her she’d poked a sleeping animal.

A soft sound escaped her — not consent, not surrender, just overwhelmed.

But it was enough.

I pushed my tongue into her mouth, exploring, taking, drowning myself in her taste like a starved man drinking poison willingly. Her chest rose sharply against mine, her breath hitching into me.

I stopped myself there — on her mouth, at her lips — because if I crossed one more line tonight, she’d shatter.

And I wasn’t ready to break her in that way.

Not yet.

Not atleast when she still fears sex from me.

When I pulled back, she was trembling, panting softly, her hair a tangled halo on the pillow. Her lips were swollen, shining, marked by me. Her eyes were wide, uncertain, too innocent for the world she’d stepped into the moment she asked me that question.

That question that ripped open ghosts.

I brushed my forehead against hers, my voice dropping into something low and rough.

“You asked something you shouldn’t have,” I whispered. “And now you’ll see the man you’re trying to uncover.”

Her breath hitched into my mouth again, her fingers still curled on my chest, trembling.

This is exactly what I don't want from her. To move forward one has to let go of fear. Not all fear. Just some. They say, fear cages us, but also saves us.

She does need to fear me. But not completely. And not with the sex. I'll make sure she will receive from the highest pleasure from our sex.

A wave of need tore through me — sharp, animal, desperate.

Not just the need to touch her.

The need to *have* something from her first.

A dose.

A grounding.

A tether before I spilled everything she wanted to know.

Because if she heard my truth — the real truth — she might finally understand me.

Or she might collapse under it.

And if she didn’t soften — if she didn’t come closer — I would do what I’ve always done.

Twist the truth.

Bend it.

Wound it.

Lie beautifully, devastatingly, pathetically — if it meant she’d look at me with anything other than fear.

Her pity would be a blessing.

Her sympathy, a treasure.

Her closeness — even if it came from a broken version of the truth — would be salvation.

I stared at her lips again, the imprint of my kiss still warm on them.

If honesty couldn’t give me her heart…

then manipulation would.

And I’d do it with pride.

Smiling.

Unapologetic.

Cold as my father’s grave and twice as ruthless.

I am not noble.

I am not moral.

I am not sane.

I was a man starving for her.

Starving for anything she’d give — even scraps, even pity —

as long as she stayed close enough to touch.