Chapter 5
Bastien Montclaire
Ah. She wants a man who burns for her. Only her.
You have my attention.
I don’t want soft hands and careful love.
I want a man who sees every fucked-up piece of me and still wants it.
Craves it. I want to be someone’s obsession.
Possession. A man who doesn’t just touch me.
He takes me—mind, body, and soul. No questions.
No hesitation. If a man like that is out there…
he can have me. All of me. Let him wreck me. I want to be undone.
Fuck yeah. I’m here for it.
My pulse doesn’t race. It steadies and locks in. Every breath is deeper, slower, hungrier.
Some moments in life don’t ask for permission. They carve themselves into you, permanent as scars.
This is one of those moments.
I shift enough to catch her in the mirror. She’s still seated, surrounded by her friends, laughing. Bold, radiant, dangerous without even trying.
Her voice is low, but it cuts through the air like a whip. Straight to me.
Not desperate. Not pleading. Hungry.
She wants a partner. A devotee.
I would be both. And more.
I would worship her the way men worship gods, with reverence sharpened by hunger, with fire licking at the edge of control. I would wrap my world around her so tightly she’d forget what it is to breathe without me.
She wouldn’t want freedom. She would only want me.
This woman wants to be at the center of a man’s obsession?
Let her try to breathe without me. Let her try to sleep without my hands on her body, without my mouth dragging secrets from her skin. Let her try to walk through her days without knowing someone is watching, not because she’s in danger but because she belongs to someone dangerous.
I would ruin her rhythm and make her crave the edge. And once she crosses into the dark with me, she'll never want to come back.
My chase would not be playful. No giggles. No safe words. No slow pursuit through candlelight. I mean a real chase. Heart-pounding and pulse-skipping. The kind where she runs because some part of her wants to be caught.
And when I catch her, God help us both.
The pursuit of man chasing woman is older than language.
It is primal, stitched into the marrow of our species.
Women know what it is to be hunted. It lives in their blood.
Ancient. Instinctual. Buried in the memory of a time when men did not ask.
They took. When desire meant dominance and surrender was not a choice. It was survival.
She has that instinct in her. I can tell by the way she speaks, the words she chooses. A part of her already knows how this ends. She’s been waiting for the hunt to begin.
I would take her deep into the trees, blindfold her first to make her heart race faster. Then I’d whisper the rules in her ear, how long a head start she gets, how far she may run. I would tell her to be clever, to make it hard, and try her best not to get caught.
Then I would let her go.
She would bolt, barefoot, her dress clinging to her thighs, laughter spilling from her mouth before it turns into something breathless and sharp.
She would move fast, but not fast enough.
Twigs snapping beneath her feet. Branches tangling in her hair.
Her hands scraping bark as she ducks, twists, and hides.
She would stop behind a tree, chest heaving, hand clamped over her mouth, trying to hide the sound of her breathing. Her ears would strain to listen, wondering if I am close, if I can smell her panic and her thrill. She wouldn’t know whether to run or wait.
And then I would be there.
I would drag her back against me in one clean motion, her front pressed to my chest, her scream swallowed by my hand. Her body would go still. Not from fear but recognition.
I’d press her back against the tree, rough bark biting through her dress into her skin.
One hand would pin both wrists above her head while the other slid up her thigh.
My fingers would graze her pussy, tracing heat and slick with just enough pressure to tease.
A whisper of touch—enough to drive her mad.
Not enough to give her anything. Not yet.
She wouldn’t plead. No, not her.
She’d curse at me. Buck against my hand. Dare me with her eyes and grind down against my palm, pretending she’s the one daring me. She’d fight me the whole time because that makes her come alive. It makes her burn.
And God, that would only make it better.
It won’t be gentle when I fuck her against that tree. Nor will it be slow. It'll be savage, deep, and unrelenting. The kind of fucking that leaves bruises and rewires instincts. The kind she'll feel long after she tries to convince herself she can walk away from me.
I’ll shove her dress up around her waist and bare that sweet, soaked cunt like it was gift-wrapped for me.
I’ll hold her wrists a moment longer, pinning them high, then release them to make it interesting.
I want the fight. I want her to buck and twist. And when she does, I’ll slide my hand to her throat, gripping tight enough to remind her who’s in control.
I won’t whisper or soothe. I’ll growl filthy promises against her skin.
She won’t be ready. Not for the stretch or for the force.
I’ll slide into her with a savage thrust that knocks the air from her lungs. Her body will seize, clench, and melt around me. She'll try to brace herself, but there is nothing to hold on to except the way I fuck her.
She’ll gasp, curse, maybe fight it just to feel the edge, to see what I do when she pushes back.
And what I'll do is ruin her the way she asked me to.
I’ll fuck her until her legs give out, until the only thing holding her up is my hand around her throat—tight enough to make her tremble, steady enough for her to lean into. I’ll drive into her with precision that proves she was made for this. For me.
I’ll pull my name from her lips in broken sobs and ragged cries, make her beg to come… then beg again, because she knows how much I fucking love it.
Her pussy will tighten around my cock, clinging with a need that won’t let go, as if it’s found the only place it was ever meant to hold. And when I feel her tremble, I’ll bury myself deeper, groan into her shoulder, and come so hard, cum will drip out of her for hours.
Then I'll pull back, slick and spent, and drag my fingers through the mess I made between her thighs.
It’ll be brutal.
It’ll be worship.
Then I’ll lean in, mouth to her ear, and remind her of the promise she made without even knowing it.
You said you wanted a man obsessed with you, I'll say, lips brushing her skin, my hand still snug around her throat. Well, now you’ve got one.
Fuck, I’m hard.
The women shift, laughter flaring, and the dark fantasy shatters. They’re on their feet now, collecting handbags, and preparing to leave.
“Hey, Laurette. Text us when you get home.”
She giggles. “Only if I don’t end up somewhere better.”
They all laugh, and I freeze.
Laurette.
Her name ripples through me, soft and haunting.
Laurette.
Her name fits her. French silk wrapped in Southern sin with grit, grace and a bit of hellfire.
I watch the way she walks, the sway of her full hips, the curve of her shoulders, the quiet command in the way she carries herself.
She’s all woman. No trace of girlish softness or uncertainty.
Her body is full, with breasts that beg to be squeezed, hips made for a man to grip.
She’s filled out with curves that come with time, confidence, and fire that doesn’t ask for permission.
This is not a girl in her twenties.
This is a woman.
And God help me, I want every inch.
It’s easy to picture how she’ll look beneath me. How she’ll sound when she moans. How she’ll scream when she’s ruined and radiant, trembling and tethered.
The second Laurette spoke her hunger aloud, something deep within me shifted. I’m happy to be the man her darkness reaches for.
Silas Rourke is a no-show tonight. But the job is already compromised. My head’s not where it needs to be. My focus is fractured. I could wait longer, but why bother? He either went to ground or never planned to show.
Doesn’t matter. He’ll pay another time.
This night gave me something better than the kill.
Rourke can wait.
She can’t.
The bartender wipes down a glass, glancing my way when I stand. “You good, man?”
I toss a few bills onto the bar. More than enough. “Keep the change.”
He nods, pocketing the cash. “Appreciate it.”
I don’t respond. Just turn and walk away, my focus already locking onto something else. Something better.
The women spill out of Leviathan in a wave of perfume and laughter. They pause outside the entrance, hugging and waving.
“Be good,” one of them teases as she tucks her arm around another.
Laurette laughs. “Never have been. Don’t plan to start now.”
The women scatter, one slipping into a cab, two sliding into waiting cars driven by men. Laurette lingers beneath the awning, then lifts a hand to flag down her rideshare as it pulls to the curb.
I’m already in my car when her rideshare pulls away. I don’t follow immediately. That would be sloppy. I give it twenty seconds. Long enough for her to settle in, long enough for the street to breathe. Then I ease out, folding into the flow of traffic.
The Quarter pulses ahead. Tourists stagger out of bars, drinks sloshing. Music bleeds from open doorways—brass, bass, the deep pulse of something alive. The air is thick with fry grease, powdered sugar, bourbon, sweat, and the faint rot that clings to old buildings and older ghosts.
Up ahead, her rideshare merges with the mess of traffic. I stay two car lengths back, her taillights blinking a steady rhythm. A heartbeat I intend to follow.