TWELVE #3
He gestured at the screen without looking away from it.
‘Just like you said: it’s not the act; it’s the emotion.
Chloe reacts like it’s a novelty – superficial – but it’s not.
’ His voice dropped a register. ‘We keep coming back to this. Being held like that, if done right… it’s not about fear or arousal.
It’s about submission. She should feel it in her breath, her pulse – not just her panties. ’
My tongue felt like sandpaper.
She feels it all right, I thought to myself.
‘She does feel it,’ I said quietly. ‘How could she not? She lets him touch her… she leans into it.’
‘That’s not the same,’ Cain murmured, his voice calm with a low cadence that suddenly pulled at the memory of Ghost. Fuck, I had it bad. ‘Leaning into a touch isn’t the same as giving your breath to someone else.’
‘She’s not afraid of it. That has to count for something,’ I argued.
‘It does,’ he said, raising his brows thoughtfully. ‘But fear and surrender aren’t opposites.’ Then he angled his head slightly, watching me. ‘Sometimes they hold hands.’
I hesitated as I held the gold of his eyes. ‘So… you’re saying she’s not supposed to enjoy it, or…?’
‘Oh, she is,’ he said, eyes sharpening. ‘But not because it’s kinky and she feels it’s wrong. But because it strips her bare. Because she knows, right then, that she belongs to him – and she’s…’ he paused, taking in a deep breath and holding it in as his eyes slanted to the side, ‘relieved.’
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out.
He watched me for a beat longer. Weighing. Thinking. And whatever he saw on my face made him move.
He stood, the motion rattling my bones.
Measuredly, he walked around the desk.
My pulse tapped against my neck unsteadily. I didn’t move. Just watched him through lashes too still, too wide.
He stopped beside me.
Close.
‘May I?’ The question was low. Careful. A string of consent stretched taut as he presented his large hand to me.
I blinked at it. May he what? But the words didn’t come out. I stared at the fingers with a foreboding sense.
My chin inclined in a curt nod, all on its own though – if only to see what he would do.
He moved slowly, never once touching without intention. His fingers lifted – hovering first – then gently, softly—
—coiled around my neck. A suggestion of power. A whisper of weight.
My throat caught my last breath and wouldn’t let go.
He didn’t lean in. He didn’t do anything except stand like that, holding me.
‘It’s pressure,’ he said quietly, ‘where words stop working. Where everything else has to speak louder – body, trust, instinct. That he won’t hurt her even if he does.
’ He drew out the silence, his hand slowly squeezing just a little tighter as his eyes roamed my face.
‘You can’t fake that feeling on a page. And you can’t write it until you know what it does to someone. ’
My stomach fluttered.
The pressure of his fingers was light – no more than a firm reminder – but it sent a ripple through me that splintered everything else. My muscles softened without permission. My spine flattened like my body wanted to be good for him. I hadn’t meant to react. But I had.
And he fucking felt it.
His gaze dipped, lingering on me longer than necessary. I wasn’t sure if it was lust. Definitely wasn’t pity.
Recognition. The kind that said: ah, there you are.
He didn’t let go.
His hand remained around my throat as if he were waiting for something. Or maybe seeing something that had always been there. That shadow in me… he was now holding it, cradling it with a stillness that screamed intent.
‘Do you understand it better now?’ he asked. A quiet question from a man who knew what it meant – and knew I didn’t, although I could very much feel a fraction of it.
My breath came shallow, but I nodded. ‘I think so,’ I said, softer than I meant to. His palm was scorching the skin on my neck, and I didn’t want to move, thinking he would break the contact if I did. ‘I’m trying to figure out where the fear ends and the pleasure begins.’
He exhaled slowly, not releasing me yet. ‘That’s the point,’ he murmured. ‘You’re not supposed to know.’
The stillness stretched.
My skin tingled beneath his palm, the tension between us humming.
His fingers flexed, just once – to remind me they were still there.
And with a deep, sobering intake of breath, he finally let go.
His hand dropped, his expression schooled into neutrally professional.
But not completely.
He moved back to his side of the desk, picked up a pen, and said with maddening calm: ‘Think about that. And about leaving this out of the onboarding feedback survey when HR comes along.’ He winked, regaining his cool.
I let out a nervous chuckle, or something like it.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said mischievously, a smirk drawing over my face to conceal how flustered he’d left me. ‘It’s going to be our little secret.’
He offered me a gentle smile, then glanced at the monitor like we’d been discussing charts and numbers instead.
But I was still trembling.
I sat there a moment longer, grasping for threads of sanity while his touch still curled like a claim around my throat. It was so similar…
To his – Ghost’s.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but I didn’t type. How could I?
The man had just edited the scene – and me – at the same time.