Chastity #2
The single word landed flat. Unapologetic. Like intimidation was a tool he wielded deliberately rather than something to apologize for.
My glare intensified. "Not helping."
Something shifted in his expression—not softening exactly, but recalibrating. His voice dropped lower, took on an edge that felt oddly like honesty wrapped in warning.
"You're going to get used to me touching you. Not because I want to—"
He paused.
The silence stretched too long, loaded with weight I couldn't identify. Something flickered behind his eyes before shutting down completely, walls slamming into place so fast I almost missed the vulnerability.
"—but because you need to."
My heart stuttered traitorously. I ignored it. Ignored the way that pause had felt significant, had suggested complications neither of us wanted to acknowledge.
He circled behind me before I could protest. I tracked him through peripheral vision, every muscle tensing as he disappeared from sight.
Then his hand settled against the small of my back. Light pressure. Nothing forceful.
I froze anyway.
"Breathe."
The command registered through the static of panic that wasn't quite panic. More like hyper-awareness of every point where his palm made contact through the thick sweater, heat spreading outward in concentric circles I absolutely hated acknowledging.
I dragged air into lungs that had forgotten how breathing worked.
His hand stayed. Steady. Certain. "This is the most common paparazzi pose. Easy. Try to walk forward."
I stepped. He moved with me, hand remaining constant against my lower back—guiding without forcing, present without demanding.
Heat spread through my body with each movement, unwelcome awareness blooming everywhere his touch anchored. My skin felt too sensitive. My breath came too shallow.
I hated it. Hated how natural his hand felt there. Hated that my body was already learning to recognize his presence as something other than threat.
He moved in front of me again before I'd fully recovered from the first exercise. Predatory efficiency in every shift of his weight, like he'd already mapped out the next three moves while I struggled to process the current one.
"Next."
I didn't like the certainty in that single word.
His hand found my waist. Not low enough to cross lines, not high enough to feel casual. Just firm. Anchoring. The kind of touch that communicated ownership without saying a word.
Air caught in my throat—sharp inhale that betrayed exactly how affected I was by contact I should've been immune to after last night's dinner.
"Don't tense."
Easy for him to say. His hand felt like a brand through the thick sweater I'd deliberately chosen for armor. Heat radiated from those fingers, seeped through fabric until my skin registered every point of contact with humiliating precision.
"This is—" I swallowed. "This is weird."
His mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. Something darker. "Because you're thinking about it. Stop thinking."
My face detonated with heat. Stop thinking. Like I could just shut down every alarm screaming in my head, every instinct cataloging the danger of letting my body grow accustomed to his hands on me.
He stepped closer.
The distance evaporated until our bodies almost touched—not quite contact, but close enough that I felt the shift in air pressure, the warmth radiating off him, the overwhelming presence that made breathing feel like a competitive sport.
"This will happen when we pose together."
My pulse hammered. "That close?"
His eyes held mine. Dark. Unreadable. Something dangerous flickering in depths I couldn't name. "Closer."
Before I could process the warning, his arm slid around me fully. Drew me against his chest with the kind of controlled strength that left zero question about who controlled this proximity, this moment, this entire fucked-up arrangement.
A sound escaped—small, involuntary. Somewhere between protest and something I absolutely refused to examine.
His eyes flicked down immediately. The shift in his expression lasted maybe half a second. Awareness flickering across features normally locked in careful neutrality. Something hungry and quickly buried that made my stomach drop and heat simultaneously.
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
I jerked back. Put three feet between us in the span of a heartbeat, chest heaving like I'd sprinted instead of stood still while he systematically dismantled every boundary I'd tried establishing.
"Can we take a break?!"
The words came out too loud. Too desperate. Exactly the kind of vulnerability I'd promised myself I wouldn't show.
Wyatt watched me. Studied me with that infuriating calm that suggested he was reading every thought I was desperately trying to bury, cataloging every reaction, every tell, every crack in my defenses.
His jaw shifted slightly. The only indication that something had registered beneath that controlled exterior.
"Fine."
Single word. Flat delivery. But his eyes tracked me as I wrapped arms around myself, as I turned away to stare out windows showcasing a backyard I hadn't explored, as I fought to regulate breathing that had absolutely nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how solid he'd felt against me.
How right it had felt, for one traitorous moment, before panic kicked in.
I hated myself a little for that thought. Hated him more for creating circumstances where my body was learning to crave proximity I absolutely couldn't afford to want.
I dropped onto the couch, fanning my face with trembling fingers. The air felt too thick. Too warm. My skin buzzed with residual heat from where his arm had wrapped around me, where his hand had anchored against my waist like he had every right to that territory.
My heart refused to calm. Kept hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape the cage of my chest.
Wyatt took the chair across from me. Not the couch—maintaining distance I desperately needed even as some traitorous part of me registered the space between us as loss rather than relief.
He watched me fan myself with an expression I couldn't read. "Still scared of me?"
The question landed softer than expected. Not mocking. Just... genuine curiosity wrapped in that dark certainty he wielded like armor.
I swallowed hard. "No."
The lie tasted wrong on my tongue. Incomplete. Because fear was part of it, but not the whole truth. Not even close.
"Not exactly."
His eyebrow lifted. Waiting. "Then what?"
The real answer clawed at my throat, desperate for release.
I'm scared of how my body reacts to you.
Scared that standing pressed against your chest felt natural instead of threatening.
Scared that I'm starting to crave the solid warmth of you anchoring me when cameras flash and strangers crowd too close.
I couldn't say any of that. Wouldn't give him that ammunition.
So I stayed silent. Let the question hang unanswered between us while my pulse gradually slowed to something approaching normal.
He leaned back in the chair, all controlled power and unfair patience. Like he had all the time in the world to wait for truths I'd never willingly surrender.
"We'll get through this."
Four words. Simple. Matter-of-fact. But something in the delivery—the unexpected gentleness threading through his usual bluntness—made my chest tighten.
"I'm trying." My voice came out smaller than intended.
He nodded once. "You did better than yesterday."
The words hit differently than they should have. Landed with weight I hadn't expected—approval I didn't realize I'd been seeking until it settled warm in my chest.
That actually means something.
The realization horrified me.
I hated that his acknowledgment mattered.
Hated that some desperate part of me had been waiting for confirmation that I wasn't completely failing at this impossible performance he'd forced me into.
Hated that validation from my captor felt like victory instead of further evidence of how thoroughly he was breaking down my defenses.