The room was drenched in a low amber glow, the light from the bedside lamp flickering like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud. Shadows danced across the walls, long and slow, echoing the rhythm of the breaths hanging thick in the air. Everything felt suspended time, thought, even the rules that usually governed their world. Isabella barely had time to gather herself before Shawn moved, his presence immediate, undeniable. His hands slid beneath her with quiet strength, lifting her like she weighed nothing, like she belonged in his arms like she had no business being anywhere else.
Her back hit the mattress with a muffled gasp, the shift jarring and exquisite. The sheets were cool against her spine, a sharp contrast to the heat rolling off his body as he followed, bracketing her with his arms, his weight. His face hovered above hers, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the heady scent of spice and skin and the phantom trail of something darker beneath it. His eyes locked onto hers, pinning her there not with force, but with focus. With possession. They were dark, unreadable, with a storm building just beneath the surface. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The air between them crackled with intent.
His hands found her wrists not to restrain, not yet but to trace, to learn. His fingers skimmed her skin like he was memorizing her, each glide a brand, each brush of contact sparking little fires beneath her skin. She was trembling before he'd even truly begun, her body betraying her secrets, arching toward him with unconscious hunger. He hadn't taken anything from her and yet, she was already giving.
"You took that so well," he murmured, his voice low, thick like velvet dipped in smoke. It wasn't a compliment. It was a mark, carved into her with words instead of teeth. A statement made after evaluation, earned not gifted.
Her lips parted, but no sound came. She couldn't speak, not with the weight of him above her, not with the way he looked at her like she was both a puzzle and a prize. Her body had already spoken louder than her voice ever could.
He smirked. Barely. Just enough to let her see the satisfaction tucked beneath the control. Just enough to make her feel it.
His touch traveled lower, grazing the curve of her waist, each inch an act of ownership. Not rough. Never careless. But deliberate. Intimate in its precision. As if every move was preordained, rehearsed in the dark corners of his mind long before this moment arrived.
"You like this," he said, and it wasn't a question. It was a truth. One he owned.
She swallowed, throat dry, her breath catching as his fingers dipped to the edge of her thigh. Her body arched again, instinct over thought. The way he hovered just above her close enough to torment, far enough to deny made every second stretch unbearably sweet.
"I can feel your pulse," he whispered, his lips near her throat but not touching. His breath was warm, feathering over her skin. "It's begging for me."
Her pulse throbbed louder, her body a live wire, trembling with anticipation. He could see it feel it how close she was to unraveling. Still, he didn't move. Didn't give. He waited.
Then, softly, dangerously, "Tell me what you want."
She blinked up at him, lips parted, breath shallow. The words trembled on her tongue like fragile things with broken wings. How could she speak when her body was screaming?
He chuckled, low and dark, edged with something cruel but tender. "No answer?" His fingers flexed against her ribs, grounding her. "Or do you like it better when I decide for you?"
Something inside her cracked not from fear, but from longing. That wild, aching, unnameable need that only he could touch. Her hands tightened in the sheets, her breath stuttered, her eyes pleading.
His gaze flared, a flicker of fire in the shadows. He dipped his head, lips brushing the shell of her ear, voice dropping to a growl. "I think you want me to take my time. Make you feel every second."
And he did.
Every movement was a study in restraint. His hands moved like slow flame, kissing the inside of her thighs with his fingertips, teasing along the hollows of her hips, igniting her nerve endings with the barest friction. She was shaking before he even gave her what she craved. Every pause was excruciating, every touch engineered to tease, not satisfy. He was worshiping her with restraint. Devouring her with delay.
"You're holding back," he murmured, dragging his mouth down the line of her throat. "But don't worry. I'll break that down too."
Her whimper was raw, her need so palpable it curled the air around them. His lips ghosted over her skin, slow, dragging heat. He didn't kiss he lingered. He made her ache for it. Her hands reached for him, desperate to pull, to urge but he took only what he wanted. Gave only what he chose.
Control was his language, and she helpless, pliant, burning was fluent in surrender.
Then, finally, his pace shifted. He moved with more purpose, more weight, his fingers sliding lower, pressing her into the bed as he dismantled her piece by piece. She moaned, soft and pleading, her voice nothing more than breath soaked in desperation.
When he kissed her deep and claiming it wasn't soft. It wasn't cruel. It was intimate. Like a lock snapping into place. Like he was tasting her surrender and stamping his name on it.
"Tell me," he whispered against her lips, his breath jagged with restraint. "I want to hear it."
Her body was gone mind spinning, soul unraveling but somewhere inside, she found the last shard of herself. She clung to it, gasping.
"I..." Her voice caught. "I need you."
His groan was low, primal, satisfaction laced with something darker.
"That's more like it."
He pressed into her, deeper, his heat wrapping around her like fire. Her hands clawed at his back, nails digging into muscle, grounding herself as he became a storm above her around her inside her. Every thrust was purpose. Every grind was a claim.
"You're beautiful like this," he murmured, voice reverent, like prayer and hunger had become one. "Falling apart for me."
