Chapter 4 I want you to touch me.

Bia's POV

God, I hated the way he made my stomach clench, that sudden, unfamiliar tightness that sent a dizzying wave through me. His gaze felt like a physical touch, pinning me down and stripping away my defenses.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips almost brushing against my earlobe, sending a jolt of raw electricity through my system. “One minute down,” he whispered, his voice smooth and silky, stretching the tension between us.

I swallowed hard, my throat thick and dry. My lungs felt starved for air. The seconds dragged on, feeling like minutes, and the minutes felt like hours.

Then he shifted closer again, a subtle movement that brought his knee into soft contact with mine through the thin fabric of my pajama shorts. The warmth of his skin and the firmness of his muscle against mine sent a strange tremor through me. His hand lifted—not quite touching me yet—but hovering near my jaw, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his palm, the ghost of a touch on my skin. Every nerve ending screamed in anticipation, a terrifying mix of dread and something else, something shameful and undeniably exhilarating.

“You’re already breathing faster,” he murmured, his voice a low, sensual caress. “You feel that?”

I exhaled shakily, a ragged breath that betrayed the frantic pace of my heart. “I’m fine.” The lie was weak now, barely a whisper.

“Liar.” His grin widened, a slow, predatory curve that stole my breath. It was a look that promised delicious torment, a triumphant acknowledgment of my unraveling.

Two minutes. The clock on the nightstand seemed to mock me with its relentless ticking. Two minutes, and my carefully constructed composure was already fracturing under the subtle pressure of his presence.

He reached up, his fingers moving with excruciating slowness. His knuckles brushed against a stray lock of hair near my temple—just a whisper of a touch, light as a butterfly's wing, yet it ignited a fiery trail across my scalp, sending shivers cascading down my entire body. He leaned in so close that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek, the subtle scent of his skin, bourbon, and that expensive cologne.

“You smell nervous,” he murmured, his voice teasingly low, right against my ear.

I hated that my thighs pressed together instinctively, a desperate attempt to shield myself. I hated that my fingers fisted tighter in the sheets, my nails digging into the soft fabric. I hated that my body was betraying me, reacting to him in ways I couldn't control or understand.

“Two and a half minutes,” he teased softly, his breath stirring the hair at my temple. “You’re already falling apart.”

“I’m not,” I whispered, though my voice was fragile, barely audible. The lie was transparent now. I was, in fact, falling apart. My resolve was dissolving like sugar in hot water.

He laughed under his breath, a low, warm sound that resonated deep in my chest. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his mouth right at my ear now, the heat of his lips an unbearable closeness, “you already lost the second you sat down.”

That broke me. His words, delivered with such certainty, stripped away the last vestiges of my defiance. He was right. I had lost the moment I stepped into this room, the moment I let curiosity override caution, the moment I felt that strange, undeniable pull.

Before I could stop myself, my hand shot up. It moved on its own, propelled by a desperate need. My fingers closed around the front of his T-shirt, gripping the soft cotton and pulling him closer, an almost violent tug. My breath was coming fast now, ragged and shallow. My entire body trembled with a mix of shame, frustration, and a terrifying, undeniable craving.

And his smirk. It didn’t just soften; it transformed into something darker, more predatory, utterly victorious. His eyes glittered with triumph, a deep, satisfied fire.

“Say it,” he murmured, his voice thick with unspoken power, his gaze locked on mine, demanding and compelling.

I hesitated, a battle raging within me. The last remnants of my pride fought against the inevitable. But the heat of his body, the intoxicating scent of him, the sheer overwhelming intensity of his presence crushed my resistance. My lips parted, and the word, barely audible, a fragile admission, escaped: “Please.”

He hummed low in his throat, a deep sound of pure satisfaction. He leaned in, closer still, until his lips, warm and firm, brushed against the sensitive skin of my jaw, just below my ear.

“Good girl,” he murmured again, the words echoing his earlier taunt but now imbued with a possessive intimacy that sent a shiver through my entire being.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against my skin where his lips lingered on my neck. “You were saying something about being able to handle yourself?” His voice was a mocking purr, thick with smug satisfaction.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight and dry. Words evaded me; thoughts scattered. Every nerve ending in my body felt raw and electrified, a painful blend of shame and undeniable arousal. I’d lost. Utterly, completely, embarrassingly lost.

His hands, still firm on my waist, slid up slightly, his thumbs grazing the bare sliver of skin between my pajama top and shorts. The touch was electric, sending a fresh shiver down my spine. “Three minutes,” he murmured, a soft echo of his earlier countdown. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

He leaned back just enough to look at me, his expression a mix of dark amusement and something hotter, more primal. His eyes seemed to glow in the dim light, black as sin and just as dangerous. I’d never seen anything so terrifying, so exhilarating.

“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into,” he said, his voice a low growl. It was a warning, a promise. A thrill of pure, reckless excitement shot through me.

I knew I should be scared. I knew this was wrong, dangerous, a step too far into uncharted territory. But I was trembling now, my body responding to his words and touch in ways I couldn’t control or comprehend. The heat pooling low in my belly was a physical ache, a desperate, shameful need.

His fingers curled into the waistband of my shorts, a subtle command. My breath caught in my throat, my heart pounding wildly. But I didn’t move, didn’t protest, didn’t dare break this tense, expectant silence.

Slowly, deliberately, he tugged my shorts down over my hips, the movement startlingly gentle despite the power in his hands. The cool air hit my bare skin like a shock, goosebumps rising in its wake. But it was his gaze that felt like a tangible touch, traveling slowly down my body as he removed my shorts completely.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, a low murmur of unchecked appreciation. There was no artifice to the compliment, no coy playfulness. It was raw, honest, spoken with almost reverent awe.

I felt a blush burning across my cheeks, fierce and undeniable. My entire body felt flushed, feverish. I was suddenly intensely aware of the thin fabric of my pajama top, the lack of a bra beneath. It felt as insubstantial as air, offering no protection against the blatant hunger in his gaze.

“You want me to touch you,” he said softly, a statement rather than a question. His hands were still on my hips, unmoving but radiating heat through my skin. I couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. My body was taut, coiled, every muscle screaming with anticipation.

“Say it,” he commanded gently, his tone a firm but teasing demand. He knew. Of course he knew. He’d known all along that I would be here, that I would lose this battle of wills, that I would give in to the forbidden temptation he represented.

I looked at him then, meeting his intense gaze head-on. I could deny it. I could maintain some semblance of control. But it would be a lie, a fragile shield against the truth of what I wanted, needed.

“Yes,” I whispered finally, the word raw and reluctant yet threaded with unspoken longing. The truth tumbled out, shattering my last barriers, my final defenses. “Please.”

His eyes flared with something unnameable, something dark and fierce and deeply satisfied. And then his hands were moving again, slipping under the hem of my pajama top, his fingers splaying possessively across the bare skin of my stomach. I gasped at the contact, a sharp intake of breath that seemed to echo in the quiet room.

“Good girl,” he murmured again, his voice a rich caress. The words were both praise and possession. “So obedient.”

His fingers crept higher, brushing the underside of my breasts through the thin fabric of my top. My nipples hardened instantly at the contact, pebbled peaks straining against the fabric. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood, stifling a needy whimper.

“Tell me what you want,” he urged, his touch lingering maddeningly just below my breasts. His eyes were locked with mine, dark and intent. “I want to hear you say it.”

I hesitated for a moment longer, a last futile effort to maintain some shred of dignity. But it was too late for that now. Too late for propriety or denial. All that remained was the naked truth of my desire.

“I want you to touch me,” I breathed finally, the confession shamefully easy now. “I want… I want you to make me.."