Chapter 9
Lena
T he ride back from Rosewood's was torture.
Pure, exquisite torture. Every bump in the road pressed me tighter against Tyson's back, the dress riding up my bare thighs, nothing between me and the leather seat but thin fabric and terrible decisions.
His muscles tensed under my hands when I'd whispered my secret in his ear at the tea shop, and he'd practically dragged me out of there, leaving a gang of shocked grandmothers in our wake.
Now his body radiated heat through his shirt as he took the corners faster than necessary, controlled but urgent.
My fingers splayed across his abdomen, feeling every sharp breath, every flex of muscle.
The engine vibrated between my legs, and combined with the memory of his face when I'd told him—eyes going black, jaw clenching, that muscle jumping in his cheek—I was already trembling by the time we reached my building.
He killed the engine but didn't move, hands gripping the handlebars white-knuckled tight. "Keys," he said, voice rough as gravel. "Get your keys out now."
"Why?" But I was already digging in my small purse, hands shaking.
"Because once I get off this bike, I'm not stopping until we're inside." He turned his head slightly, and I caught the edge of his profile—all sharp angles and barely leashed control. "Unless you want to give your neighbors a show."
The keys jangled in my trembling fingers. He swung off the bike in one fluid motion, then lifted me off before I could move. My legs wobbled, still vibrating from the ride, and he steadied me with hands that gripped just a little too tight.
"Walk," he commanded, hand on my lower back propelling me forward. "Now."
We made it up the stairs, barely. His hand tangled in my hair at the first landing, pulling me back against his chest. "You think you're cute?" he growled in my ear. "Telling me that right before I had to drive? Feeling you pressed against me the whole ride back, knowing—"
"Inside," I gasped, fumbling with the lock. "Please, just—"
The door finally gave way and we tumbled through. I'd barely gotten it closed before he spun me, pressing me back against the wood with his full weight. The keys clattered somewhere on the floor as his mouth crashed into mine.
This wasn't the careful kiss from our contract negotiations or the tender seal of our agreement.
This was wildfire. Desperation. His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming and demanding, while his hands framed my face like I might disappear.
I melted into him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more.
He kissed me like he'd been holding back for years, not days or weeks.
Like every controlled moment had been building to this explosion.
One hand left my face to grip my hip, thumb finding bare skin where the dress had ridden up.
The touch was electric, shooting straight through me, and I gasped into his mouth.
"Fuck," he groaned, the curse torn from somewhere deep. His hips pressed forward, pinning me more firmly, and I could feel how affected he was. How much he wanted this. Wanted me.
I rolled my hips against him, seeking friction, and his control cracked.
His mouth left mine to trail down my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point.
My head fell back against the door with a thunk I didn't feel, too lost in sensation.
His name fell from my lips like a prayer, over and over, as he found that spot where neck meets shoulder that made me see stars.
Then suddenly, he pulled back.
The loss of contact was jarring, like being doused with cold water. I blinked up at him, confused and desperate, reaching to pull him back. But he caught my wrists gently, holding them between us.
"Wait." His voice was wrecked, breathing ragged. But his eyes—those intense brown eyes—were clear and focused. "Check-in first."
Check-in. Right. Our protocol. Even through the haze of want, warmth bloomed in my chest. Here he was, hard against my hip, breathing like he'd run a marathon, and he was still following our rules. Still making sure I was okay.
"Where's your head at?" he asked, thumbs stroking over my pulse points.
I blinked at the question, brain trying to come back online. He waited patiently while I gathered my scrambled thoughts, not pushing, just holding my wrists and watching my face.
"Green," I breathed when I could form words. "So green. So very, very green." I tugged against his hold, not to escape but to show him I was present. Aware. "Not little, not even close. I want . . ."
I trailed my gaze down his chest, taking in the way his shirt stretched across muscles, the way his chest rose and fell with barely controlled breathing. When I looked back up, his pupils had blown wide, but he still waited.
"I want you to take control," I said clearly, making sure he heard every word. "Show me what you need. What you've been thinking about since that storage room. Since before."
His eyes darkened to almost black. "You sure? We can slow down—"
"Tyson," I interrupted, putting every ounce of certainty I felt into his name. "I've been sure since you kissed me in that storage room. Maybe since you first walked into my shop with all your careful control and deadly competence."
He studied my face like he was reading a tactical map, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. Whatever he found must have satisfied him because he nodded once, decisive.
"Bedroom." The command in his voice sent electricity down my spine. "Now."
I started to walk, eager to comply, but his hand caught my wrist. The grip wasn't harsh, but it was firm. Unmovable.
"Who said you could walk?"
Before I could process the question, the world tilted. He'd lifted me clean off my feet, tossing me over his shoulder in a fireman's carry like I weighed nothing. I squeaked in surprise, then laughed despite the heat pooling low in my belly.
"Caveman!" I accused, but I was grinning. My hands found purchase on his back, feeling the play of muscle as he moved.
"You have no idea," he growled, one hand steadying me at the back of my thighs. The casual display of strength made me shiver. "The things I've thought about. The ways I've imagined having you."
"Tell me," I demanded, breathless from more than being upside down.
"Rather show you." He navigated through my apartment like he'd mapped it during his security assessment. Which, knowing him, he probably had. "If you're good."
"I can be good." The words came out more breathless than intended. "So good."
His hand tightened on my thigh. "We'll see about that."
He set me down at the foot of my bed with surprising gentleness, a complete contrast to the caveman display moments before.
My feet touched the floor but my legs felt unsteady, like I'd forgotten how to use them.
His hands lingered on my waist for a moment, making sure I was stable, before he stepped back.
The loss of contact was immediate and unwelcome. But the way he looked at me—intense, focused, like I was a puzzle he was about to solve—made the distance crackle with possibility.
I started to turn to follow his movement, but his voice stopped me. "Eyes forward."
The command was gentle but unmistakable.
I snapped my gaze to the wall, pulse accelerating.
He completed his first circle, and I felt his attention like a physical touch, cataloging every detail.
The way my dress clung. The rapid rise and fall of my chest. The way my fingers twitched at my sides, wanting to reach for him.
"Hands behind your back."
I complied immediately, lacing my fingers together at the small of my back. The position thrust my chest forward slightly, and I heard his sharp intake of breath. The sound sent triumph spiraling through me—I affected him too, even with all his control.
He noticed everything, of course. "Look at you, following orders already." He stopped in front of me, just out of reach. "Such a good girl."
The praise hit exactly as intended. My knees actually wobbled, and a small sound escaped before I could stop it. Heat flooded my face, embarrassment at being so transparent warring with the liquid warmth spreading through my limbs.
"That's what does it for you," he observed, tilting his head. Not mocking, just noting. Filing away for future use. "Being told you're good. Being seen."
He stepped closer, finally, blessedly closer. His hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb tracing my lower lip with devastating gentleness. "I see you, Lena. See how brave you're being right now. How beautiful."
"Tyson—" His name came out rough, needy.
"Did I say you could speak?" His voice was firm but warm, no real censure in it. Just establishing the rules.
I bit my lip, shaking my head. His thumb followed the movement, pressing lightly against where my teeth worried the flesh.
"Better." He rewarded me with the ghost of a smile. "Now, I'm going to undress you. Slowly. And you're going to keep your hands behind your back the whole time. Think you can do that for me?"
I nodded eagerly, then caught myself. He wanted words earlier. Did he want them now? The uncertainty must have shown on my face because his expression softened.
"Words, baby. Give me words."
Baby. The endearment sent warmth spiraling through me. "Yes," I managed, voice steadier than expected. "Yes, I can do that."
"Good girl." He sealed the praise with a soft kiss, just a brush of lips that left me chasing his mouth when he pulled back. "My perfect girl."
The possessive made me shiver. His perfect girl. His. The word echoed in my head as he stepped back again, creating just enough distance to look at me properly.
"Here's the thing," he said conversationally, like we were discussing the weather instead of standing in my bedroom with me trembling under his gaze. "I've been thinking about this for longer than I should admit. Imagining how you'd look. How you'd sound. How you'd respond to different things."