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Bane: How do I make you feel?

My smile fades into something softer as I read the question again.

Emma: Safe.

Bane: Good.

Another message follows.

Bane: Now tell me what you’re wearing.

I roll my eyes before I type back.

Emma: If you must know, an old college tee and nothing else.

The typing dots appear almost as soon as I send it.

Bane: I need photographic evidence.

I shake my head, unable to stop the smile tugging at my mouth.

Emma: You’ll have to live with your imagination tonight.

Bane: You are a cruel woman.

I pull the covers higher even though the room isn’t cold, and my skin tingles as I try to ease the rush inside me. Every inch of me aches, carrying the memory of his touch like a craving that refuses to fade.

I tell myself it’s only the adrenaline wearing off, my body adjusting after spending an entire week burying every want until it felt like holding my breath underwater.

The excuse falls apart the instant I close my eyes because I can still feel his thumb pressing beneath my jaw and hear the promises his mouth whispered in a language built entirely around hunger, one I’ve already proven I can’t resist.

My thumb hangs over the keyboard as I shift beneath the covers, my thighs damp from picturing his eyes following every inch of me through the darkness.

My body remembers the taste of him and the way he guided me with the smallest gestures, a hand around my throat, a quiet command, the kind of control I’d never surrender to anyone else.

My pulse skips as I finally type.

Emma: What are you doing right now?

The dots appear, disappear, then return, giving me just enough time to picture him shirtless in his apartment, completely comfortable with every appetite he has.

Bane: Thinking about you.

I slide my hand beneath the hem of my shirt and brush my fingertips over the skin still carrying the imprint of his palm, and the nervous flutter inside me tightens into a deeper ache that makes me wish he was here beside me.

I press my knees together before letting my hand drift between my legs, hovering on the edge of giving myself what I’ve wanted for what feels like forever, when my phone breaks the silence with another chime.

Bane: I want to see you.

My heart pounds as I set the phone against the lamp on my nightstand and tug my shirt higher, framing the picture carefully enough to hide my face but give him exactly what he’s asking for.

Emma: Okay, here you go.

Another message appears before I’ve even lowered the phone.

Bane: I want you, right now. I want to watch you come.

Heat rushes through my face and down my chest as I arch against the headboard, tip my hips, and gather my shirt higher until I can see the faint tremble running through my thighs.