Benjamin
The door clicks shut behind him with no warning.
No sound from her. But he knows she's in here. He can feel her.
His jaw tightens involuntarily.
Kath stands at the archive cabinet, flipping through files with single-minded focus, unaware of the presence behind her.
He says nothing.
Each step he takes is deliberate—quiet, measured—until he stops just a breath away.
Too close.
She stiffens, the tension subtle but unmistakable. Not fear.
Anticipation.
Benjamin watches the subtle tension spread across her shoulders, the way her fingers pause mid-motion on the file.
He feels the heat radiating from her body, mere inches from his own. His pulse quickens, but his expression remains impassive.
"Bolder than usual, Winters." His voice is low, dark—a warning wrapped in velvet.
Kath glances over her shoulder. Smirking. Unrepentant. Beautiful. Dangerous.
"What? No public humiliation?" she asks, mock-innocent, but her eyes betray her. They always do.
Benjamin exhales. Sharp. Quiet.
She thinks this is still banter. Still flirtation. Still safe. It isn't.
He leans in—voice a rasp against her spine.
"You think I don't know what you're doing?"
His eyes rake over her.
Not casual.
Calculating. Claiming.
"Rule number three and nine, Winters. You're not supposed to look at me like you still want me, and you can't call me Ben in front of others."
Her smirk doesn't fade.
"And yet… here we are," Kath replies, cool and soft, but there's something beneath her words—a current of electricity that makes his skin burn. She turned to face him.
Benjamin's gaze drops, taking in every inch of her.
Her blouse—fitted just enough to hint at what's beneath.
Her skirt—professional, but the way it clings to her curves is anything but. Her mouth—slightly parted, the ghost of that infuriating smirk still playing at the corners.
Everything she knows he notices. Everything she wants him to. The realization makes something dark curl in him.
"I've been generous," he says, voice lower now, dangerous, sexy. "Haven't even counted how many times I should've punished you for it."
He steps closer, eliminating what little space remained between them. His hand drags down her hip—slow, deliberate, measured. A touch that leaves fire in its wake. Benjamin feels her body tense under his fingers, but she doesn't step away. Doesn't even try.
She remains frozen in place, caught in the gravity of his presence. Not a retreat, not a surrender—a deliberate choice that makes Benjamin's pulse quicken beneath his skin.
His mouth is near her ear now, close enough that his breath stirs the loose strands of hair at her temple. He can smell her perfume—that vanilla that's been haunting him for weeks.
"So tell me, Winters," he murmurs, a smirk forming as he speaks, voice like a razor, "are you at least following your other punishment?"
Kath's breath stutters. Just for a second—a tiny, revealing hitch that betrays her composure.
"Which one?" she asks, voice soft, hesitant.
Benjamin hums, the sound dark and pleased. She knows exactly which one. The fact that she's playing innocent only confirms it.
His fingers trail lower—just above her thigh, to the edge of her skirt.
"That little rule about what you wear under this?" he asks.
His hand lifts the hem just slightly. Testing. Teasing.
Not enough to see—just enough to remind her that he could.
She sucks in a breath, sharp and sudden.
Because of course she remembers. Of course he checks.
Benjamin doesn’t think. He moves.
One second, she’s smirking—so damn smug. Taunting him. Knowing exactly what she’s doing.
The next—he’s on her.
His mouth crashes into hers, brutal and breathless, a punishment disguised as a kiss. But it’s not a kiss. It’s a reckoning. A consequence for every sly glance, every tilt of her chin, every time she’s made him want her more than he wants to stay in control.
She gasps—sharp and startled—but there’s no hesitation.
No pushback.
She grabs him. Fingers fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer, lips parting under the weight of his hunger. She meets him head-on, fire for fire, tongue for tongue.
The sound she makes when he deepens the kiss—a ragged, breathless moan—sends a pulse of heat straight through him.
His hand slides up her neck—fingers splayed, curling around her throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Reminding.
His thumb brushes her pulse—racing, wild, frantic. Betraying her. And fuck, it does something to him. That proof of how badly she wants this. Wants him.
His other hand is already moving—skimming down, fingers dragging along the soft curve of her thigh. Her skirt bunches under his palm, rising, rising, riseing.
She’s burning hot. Smooth and bare. Each inch he touches feeds the fire climbing up his spine.
And then—he finds it.
Lace. Delicate. Soft. Exactly what he told her to wear.
He groans, low and rough, the sound torn from somewhere deep and feral. The fabric is wet. Soaked. He slides two fingers over the heat of her, just to feel the slick, forbidden proof.
She shudders—hips jerking into his touch, breath hitching against his lips. A whimper tumbles out of her mouth, needy and raw.
He breaks the kiss, dragging his mouth across her cheek, her chin, down her neck. Tasting her. Devouring her. Her skin is hot and salted and smells like vanilla, adrenaline and Kath.
She tilts her head back—offering. Surrendering. Daring him to take.
His teeth graze her collarbone as his grip tightens on her thigh. He presses her into the shelving behind them—files and folders forgotten. The whole damn archive could fall around them and he wouldn’t stop.
He wants to ruin her.
And God, she wants it.
She’s writhing under him now—arching, gasping, her hands tugging at his shirt like she wants to tear him apart just to get more. Her nails dig into his shoulders, and the sting of it turns his blood molten.
Her voice is a breath against his ear. “Ben…”
His hand slips higher, fingers skimming the edge of her underwear, teasing where she’s hot and aching and already soaking for him. She gasps, body bowing toward his hand, seeking friction, relief, him.
But just when she thinks he’ll give her what she needs—
He stops.
His touch vanishes. His body pulls back.
She lets out a choked sound—devastated, dazed. Her hands fall away, suddenly weightless without him to hold onto.
Kath blinks up at him, lips swollen, pupils blown wide.
Her chest heaves with each ragged breath. She’s wrecked. Shaking. Hungry.
And all he does is look.
Look at the mess he’s made.
At her hair tangled from his hands. At the unmistakable proof of want between her thighs.
Then—his smirk returns.
Cruel. Wicked. Satisfied.
“At least you’re following some rules,” he murmurs, voice low and lethal, laced with heat and smugness.
He steps back.
But the distance doesn't ease the tension. If anything—it tightens it.
The air between them feels charged, electric with possibility. With promise. With threat.
He watches her—the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the flush spreading across her skin, the way her fingers curl against the shelf behind her for support.
His control is ironclad. Not loud. Not cruel. Just... absolute.
He doesn't need to raise his voice. Doesn't need to make a show of power. His presence alone is enough—the steady rhythm of his breathing, the unwavering focus of his gaze, the deliberate stillness of his body.
She's still panting.
Benjamin tilts his head slightly. Like he's studying her.
Like he's about to pass sentence. His eyes trace the curve of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the way her blouse has shifted to reveal more skin than she intended.
"New rule, Katherine," he says, voice quiet, lethal.
She blinks. Trying to pull herself together. Trying to find her footing in this new reality where he's kissed her senseless and then stepped away like it was nothing.
"What?" she manages, the word breathless, betraying how affected she still is.
Ben's lips curve into something not quite a smile. Something darker. More dangerous.
"As long as you're staying at my place..." he pauses, letting the words hang between them, "you don't touch yourself. Without my permission."
She freezes. Breath caught.
The air between them shifts. From fire to pressure. Dense. Intimate. Unforgiving.
Benjamin watches the realization dawn on her face—the understanding of exactly what he's demanding. What he's taking from her. Not just her space, not just her independence, but her most private moments. Her pleasure. Her release.
It's the most intimate rule yet. And they both know it.
Ben watches the impact of his words sink in, savoring the way Kath’s composure crumbles before him. He can see her mind racing, trying to find a way out, a loophole, some semblance of control.
But there is none.
Not anymore.
“Not when you think of me,” he continues, voice lower, darker. “Not when you smell me on your skin. Not when you're lying in that bed, knowing I'm just a room away.”
Her pupils dilate. Her lips part.
Ben steps closer again. Not touching. Just invading.
The space between them shrinks to nothing, yet he maintains that final barrier—the one that would break them both if crossed.
“Not when you remember what my hands feel like on your body. Or when you wake up aching. Desperate. Needing.”
Her fingers twitch at her sides. Like she wants to move.
He watches her—every breath, every shift, every blink.
She's fighting it.
He’s letting her.
Just long enough.
“But you can always ask,” he says, voice dropping lower, slower.
She swallows.
Ben feels power course through him—not cruel, not petty, but absolute. This is what he’s wanted since the moment she betrayed him. Not just her body. Not just her submission.
But her acknowledgment. Her recognition that she belongs to him in ways neither of them can escape.
“And I’ll be more than happy…” he says, voice dipping into sin, “to grant permission.”
Her breath stutters again. And this time? She doesn’t say a word.
Because there’s nothing to say. They both know it.
She won’t fight this.
The archive room was still.
Her scent lingered—sweet and electric. Like something half-claimed.
Ben exhaled, slow and controlled.
He braced his palms against the cold metal shelf, grounding himself.
Just enough pressure to remind his body:
Not yet.
Her breath, the heat of her skin, the way she didn’t say no—
It all echoed louder in the silence.
He closed his eyes. Just once.
Then turned and walked out.