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Just a little.

Straight down onto the hand that hadn’t moved yet, so of course he felt it. Felt the moment my armor of fake indifference started to crack.

“There she is,” he said against my neck. So, I turned my face away in shame and shut my eyes. After all, it was the last thing I had. My hands were gone, wrapped in my own gauze and knotted above my head to a pipe. My clothes were open, and somewhere in the last few minutes my body had stopped taking instructions from me at all. Which meant that shutting my eyes was the only defense I had left.

And he took it off me in about two seconds.

His hand left my breast and closed around my jaw, and he turned my face back to him. Not gently, but not roughly either, the way you’d turn a key to get inside a place someone foolishly thought they could keep you locked behind.

“Open your eyes,” he demanded softly, but I kept them shut.

“Anna.” The American slid right out from under it when whispering my name, and I swear this alone nearly undid me.

“Open. Your. Eyes.” It was nothing short of an order this time, one practically growled against my skin, and it was powerful enough that they snapped open.

Then his hand moved from my jaw to my throat and my breath caught at the threat. However, when he didn’t squeeze, and I realized there was no pressure, the question he saw in my eyes made him smirk. Because his fingers weren’t closing. They weren’t taking anything from me.

“Breathe for me,” he commanded next, and I did, because it was the reminder I needed so I wouldn’t pass out. And like I said, it had nothing to do with his hand around my throat. Or the way his fingers had just spread out and seemed to settle where they wanted to be. He just continued to hold me still with his thumb along one side of my windpipe and the heel of his palm at the base of my neck, holding my head exactly where he had put it.

And it should have terrified me.

But the horrifying truth was that it didn’t.

Because I was too busy being aroused by it. Too busy silently begging him for the friction of his hand still held cupped at my pussy. Too busy being so wet, I could feel it coating my inner thighs.

That was the moment I understood I was in real trouble, and it had nothing to do with the door being locked.

“Eyes on me.” He was so close I could feel him say it. “Don’t take them off me. Not for a second. Do you understand?”

“Please.” I wasn’t sure exactly what I was begging for at this point, and if it was what I feared, then I wasn’t about to put it into words.

“That isn’t what I asked,” he corrected in a sterner tone that sent shivers through me.

“I understand,” I told him before I could think better of it.

“Good.” His thumb stroked once along my throat, and it was almost tender, which made it worse.

“Because I’ve waited seven days for this, seven days since the first time I laid eyes on you, and I’m not going to miss it. Not one second of it. This is mine, little one. Not the shower, not the door, not the spark of defiance you still think to give me.” His hand pressed up between my legs, and my whole body jolted. And he watched it happen with his eyes half an inch from mine.

“This right here… this pussy is mine… and the pleasure I grant you playing with what’s mine also belongs to me, and I intend to see it for myself.”

I didn’t have long to wait until his words became a reality, as he reached down between us and found the drawstring at my waist.

A slight pull with two fingers was all it took and the knot gave easily, loosening the waist of my scrubs.

“There,” he said. “That’s better.”

Then his hand dipped in and I held my breath waiting for his touch like I was the one who had asked for it. Like I was the one asking for him to venture further down past the loosened waist of my scrubs and claiming the pussy he had declared already owning.

I felt the wet fabric drag against the back of his knuckles, felt the whole width of his hand forcing the room it needed as it went. Then his fingers reached the edge of my underwear, and every muscle in me went painfully still.

He held me there, a prisoner to his dangerous touch.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his tone thick and rough in a way that nearly unraveled me right then and there. And God help me, I looked. His pale blue eyes were like a beacon, bright enough to keep me anchored to the spot. And in turn, he made me watch him while he paused, and I realized he was waiting for me to understand what was about to happen.

“Spread your legs and welcome me in… ask me for more, little bird,” he said, and I shook my head, making him growl down at me,

“Say it.”