Chapter 13
Kelly
“Take it off. Everything. Now,” J.T. demands.
The command hits me low and electric.
Not because he’s ordering me.
But because I want to obey.
There’s a difference.
My fingers fumble with the clasp of my bra, nerves making me slower than I’d like, and he growls—a deep, feral sound that goes straight to my core.
In two long strides he’s in front of me, hands moving with impatient precision as he helps, fabric sliding away like it offended him just by existing between us.
His focus is consuming.
Total.
When he steps back to strip the last of his own clothing away, I kneel on the bed, heart hammering so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it over the blood rushing in my ears. I push my panties down my thighs, not bothering with grace.
I don’t feel shy.
I feel chosen.
He stands there for a second, unapologetically male and devastatingly sure of himself.
Tall. Broad.
All hard lines and powerful muscles built from years of actual work, not vanity.
He doesn’t pose.
He doesn’t preen.
He just looks at me like I’m the one he’s been starving for.
His hand wraps around himself in a slow, possessive stroke, and my breath catches in my throat. I mean, he palms his dick.
Stroking it from root to tip, and I shiver with anticipation.
He is enormous. Not just in size, though yes—God, yes—but in presence.
He fills the room.
The whole space.
Invades my mind, my thoughts.
Looking at him has me tightening every muscle in my body.
My mouth waters just looking at him, and I realize I’ve gone completely still, staring.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His jaw flexes. His eyes darken further.
“Back up, honey,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Spread those legs for me.”
Heat explodes through me.
For one split second, the old voice in my head tries to whisper doubt.
Too much. Too bold. Too needy.
I shut it down.
Because I am done being small.
I move back slowly across the mattress, never breaking eye contact, my pulse thrumming with something that feels dangerously close to surrender—and nothing like weakness.
When I part my thighs, it’s not just because he ordered it.
It’s because I want him to see.
To know.
To understand exactly what he does to me.
His breath changes.
Just slightly.
And that small shift gives me more power than I’ve ever felt in my life.
He steps forward like a predator who has finally cornered what he’s been hunting for years—but there’s reverence in it too.
A kind of obsession that feels less like conquest and more like destiny.
The air between us is thick.
Charged.
We are past the point of pretending this is about convenience, or protection, or strategy.
This is hunger.
This is want.
This is two people who have circled each other for years finally closing the distance.
And when he climbs onto the bed with me, his body caging mine in without crushing, I realize something with startling clarity—I’m not afraid of being consumed.
I’m afraid of how much I want to be consumed. By him.
“Are you ready for me, Honey?”