Tip #5: Calm men are dangerous. Especially when they're patient.
It began, as many of their confrontations now did, with something completely absurd.
A mug.
Not just any mug, of course, but one particular, offensively chipped, hideous little ceramic monstrosity that Longbottom had placed squarely in the center of her pristine breakfast table as if it belonged there.
Pansy froze as soon as she walked in, silk dressing gown trailing behind her, hair pinned up with effortless precision, every inch of her designed for a peaceful, elegant morning.
And there it was.
The mug.
Ugly. Out of place. Staring at her as if it was laughing in quiet defiance.
Her eyes narrowed immediately. She said nothing at first, simply crossed the kitchen with precise steps, heels clicking softly on the tile as she reached for the offending object.
Neville looked up from where he stood at the counter, preparing tea with that same maddening calm, sleeves rolled, hair slightly tousled as if he had just come in from tending to his wretched plants.
He smiled faintly. "Good morning, Bloom."
Pansy ignored the greeting completely. "Why," she said slowly, voice already sharpening, "is this thing on my table?"
Neville followed her gaze, blinking once as if he had no idea what she could possibly mean. "That's my favorite mug."
"Favorite?" she repeated, incredulous, turning it in her hand with exaggerated disdain. "This? This battered little... thing?"
He only shrugged gently, his calm completely unshaken. "It's comfortable to hold."
"It is hideous," Pansy shot back, her tone rising before she could stop herself. "This table is not a place for chipped ceramic eyesores. Do you see the aesthetic of this room? Do you think this mug complements it? Because I assure you, it does not."
Neville poured hot water into the teapot slowly, deliberately, and did not rise to the bait. "It's just a mug, Bloom."
Her spine stiffened immediately. "Nothing in this house is just anything, Longbottom. Especially not this... atrocity on my breakfast table."
"And yet," he replied mildly, eyes lifting to meet hers with infuriating steadiness, "here it is."
Her fingers tightened around the handle as she glared at him, the flush rising high in her cheeks, breath coming quicker as irritation clawed its way up her throat. "You're deliberately provoking me," she accused.
Neville's lips twitched at that, the faintest flicker of amusement sparking in his eyes. "Am I?"
"Yes," she snapped, setting the mug down a little too forcefully, the sharp clink echoing in the quiet kitchen. "You know perfectly well how I feel about clutter and ugliness and things that do not belong."
He moved around the counter toward her with maddening slowness, wiping his hands on a towel as he came. "You're very particular."
"That's one way of putting it," she retorted, stepping back slightly as he approached, though she refused to look away from him. "I call it standards."
Neville stopped directly in front of her now, far closer than he normally stood, his height forcing her to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact. His proximity sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through her, a rush of annoyance and something else she did not care to name.
And still he smiled, soft and composed, as if nothing about this situation was unusual.
She hated that smile.
She hated that calm.
And she hated that she could feel her pulse fluttering faster the longer he stood there, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint trace of earth and soap and tea that clung to him.
"Longbottom," she warned, her voice lowering but losing none of its sharpness. "Back away from me."
But he did not move back.
He stepped forward instead, closing the remaining space between them so that her hips met the edge of the counter behind her. She froze, breath catching audibly as she realized too late that he was crowding her deliberately, every inch of his body invading hers without a single rush of aggression.
Just steady, patient, maddening pressure.
His gaze never wavered from hers.
Pansy's fingers flattened on the countertop instinctively, seeking purchase, grounding herself, though she felt anything but grounded. Her robe was thin and delicate, and she was suddenly, painfully aware of just how little space there was between them.
Her heart pounded hard enough that she could feel it echoing in her throat.
Neville leaned forward slightly, bracing one palm on the counter beside her hip, his other hand slipping into his pocket, utterly casual but absolutely caging her in.
His voice, when he finally spoke again, was low and even.
"It's a mug, darling," he said, a trace of warmth in the words that only made them worse. "You're spiraling over a mug."
"I am not spiraling," she lied immediately, her voice breathless, pitched too high, her composure fraying rapidly. "I am... maintaining order."
His brow lifted slightly at that, and his gaze dropped for the briefest second to her lips before returning to her eyes.
The look made her stomach tighten painfully.
"And now," he said, his voice so soft she almost had to strain to hear it, "you're pinned against your kitchen counter... over a mug."
Her breath hitched audibly, fury and desire crashing together inside her so violently that she could barely tell which was which anymore.
He was close enough now that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek, close enough that if she so much as leaned forward half an inch their mouths would brush, close enough that she could see the tiny flecks of green and gold in his eyes.
And still he did not move.
He did not kiss her.
He just waited.
Patient. Calm. Dangerous.
Her entire body felt like it was vibrating, flushed and tense and aching, overwhelmed by the heat of him, the solid, quiet presence of him pressing her against the counter as if this entire argument had been nothing more than a game he had quietly won.
And the worst part was that she wanted him to.
The heat between them was unbearable now.
Pansy's breath came fast, too shallow, her pulse a wild, relentless drumbeat beneath her skin as she remained pinned against the counter. Neville still stood close enough that every shift of his body, every quiet inhale and exhale, seemed magnified, felt as if it was touching her.
And he would not move.
He was just there, steady and infuriating, his palm braced casually on the countertop beside her, leaning in close without touching her anywhere else, without giving her what her nerves and blood and body were all screaming for.
His gaze was steady, impossibly patient, but she could see it now. There was something simmering beneath that calm. Something hotter. Something darker. Something that mirrored the chaos twisting through her chest.
It should have been easy to break this moment. She should have been able to shove him away, make some sharp, cutting remark and regain her footing. She was Pansy Parkinson. She could slice men to pieces with a glance, let alone words.
But she felt off balance. Breathless. Shaken by how thoroughly he had undone her with nothing but proximity.
And that infuriated her even more.
So she did the only thing she knew how to do, she opened her mouth and said something cruel.
"You're just a coward," she snapped, her voice low but sharp enough to bite, even as it cracked slightly at the edges. "All this... smug patience. It's cowardice. You're too afraid to actually want anything."
Her words rang out in the quiet kitchen, filling the space between them, a challenge and an accusation tangled into one.
For a heartbeat, Neville did not react.
He just looked at her, eyes dark, still steady, but that simmering tension she had noticed earlier deepened, sharpened, sparked.
And then, without a word, without any hesitation at all, he moved.
It happened fast.
Faster than she expected.
One moment he was standing there calmly, coolly, watching her fall apart, and the next his hand slid from the counter to her jaw, fingers tilting her face up as he leaned in and kissed her.
It was not soft. Not careful.
It was rough and sudden and utterly devastating.
His lips crashed against hers with none of the restraint he had shown moments before, all that maddening calm finally burning away into something raw and consuming. His other hand caught her waist, pulling her forward so that there was no space left between them, not even air.
The breath left her body in a rush, stolen as much by the force of the kiss as by the shock of it.
There was nothing gentle here.
No warning. No permission asked.
Just heat and hunger.
Her fingers tightened reflexively against the countertop behind her, nails digging into the cool surface as her body arched toward him without conscious thought, drawn in by the sudden, irresistible gravity of him.
Her mind raced to catch up, but it couldn't. She couldn't think. She couldn't move except toward him.
Her lips parted instinctively under the pressure of his, and his mouth deepened the kiss immediately, claiming her with a kind of desperate precision she had not expected from him. His tongue swept against hers and the softest sound escaped her throat before she could stop it — a gasp or maybe a moan, she didn't know and didn't care.
Heat spiraled through her in waves, stronger with every second he kept her pinned there, his body hard and steady against hers, his hand tightening just slightly at her waist as though he meant to keep her exactly where she was, breathless and trembling and entirely at his mercy.
Her fingers reached blindly for his shirt, curling into the fabric, holding on without even realizing she was doing it.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.
Neville pulled back slowly, breath unsteady now, eyes dark and unreadable.
His hand still lingered at her waist, thumb brushing once, slowly, over the silk of her dressing gown as if he was committing the feel of it to memory.
Pansy could not breathe properly.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, every nerve alive and aching. Her pulse thundered so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
Neither of them spoke.
For a long, endless moment they just stood there, staring at each other, both visibly shaken in ways neither had expected.
Pansy's mind was spinning. Her body felt hot and weightless at the same time, and she hated it — hated how easy it had been for him to steal her breath, how quickly all her careful plans had been ruined, not by his rejection, but by this.
By this kiss.
A kiss she had wanted.
That was the worst part.
She had wanted it.
Badly.
And now she stood here, trapped in the aftermath, unable to summon a single word to cover the fact that he had reduced her to this.
Breathless, undone, rattled to her bones.
Neville's gaze softened, just a fraction, but he did not step back. He did not apologize. He did not explain.
His breath was just as unsteady as hers, and yet he remained perfectly still, watching her closely, quietly, as if waiting to see what she would do next.
Pansy licked her lips unconsciously, then immediately cursed herself for it, seeing the flicker of heat in his eyes as he tracked the movement.
Her pulse only quickened again, spiraling.
And then, finally, she managed to break the silence, though her voice sounded hoarse and strange, as unfamiliar to her as this entire moment.
"Get out of my kitchen," she whispered, the words weak even as they left her mouth.
But he didn't move.
Not yet.
His gaze held hers for another long, suspended moment, and then the faintest smile touched the corners of his mouth.
That same soft, maddening smile she was coming to loathe.
And only then did he step back.
One step.
Then another.
Slowly, deliberately, leaving her leaning against the counter for support, lips parted, chest heaving, mind spinning.
He said nothing at all as he left the room.
And she could do nothing but stand there, shaking, heart racing, breath shallow, lips still tingling from the force of his kiss.
Completely undone.
Again.
~
Pansy spent the rest of the morning in a state of near-manic distraction. She could not sit still.
The moment Longbottom had left the kitchen, she had straightened, smoothing her robe, brushing imaginary lint from her lapels with hands that shook slightly no matter how much she pretended otherwise.
She had poured herself another cup of tea that went cold untouched. She had walked briskly through three different rooms before realizing she had no idea what she had been looking for.
Her mind replayed the kiss on an endless loop, as if she could dissect it somehow, pick apart the heat of it, the breathlessness, the sound her own throat had made when his tongue slid against hers, the way his hand had curled possessively at her waist like he could not help himself.
It had been a mistake. That much she was certain of.
A moment of... something. Weakness on both their parts.
Easily rectified.
She simply had to reassert the balance. That was all. Reclaim her control. Rebuild the walls he had so thoroughly shattered with that one rough, devastating kiss.
She would make it clear that nothing had changed. That she was still Pansy Parkinson and he was still Neville bloody Longbottom — an unwelcome guest in her house, a Ministry inconvenience at best, a walking nuisance at worst.
By the time afternoon settled over the house, she was ready.
Or so she told herself.
Her strategy was simple: coldness, sarcasm, distance.
He would see precisely where they stood.
When she finally encountered him again, this time in the sitting room, where he sat comfortably reading in the armchair nearest the window, utterly relaxed as if he had not just kissed her senseless a few hours earlier, she was prepared.
Her entrance was perfectly casual but deliberately grand, silk robe swept behind her as she crossed the threshold with an air of elegant disinterest.
"Longbottom," she said, drawing out his name slowly, as if it tasted sour in her mouth. "Must you always lounge in the one chair with the best light? It is so very tiresome."
He looked up from his book immediately, and that was the first problem.
His expression did not shift. No awkward guilt. No embarrassment. No visible cracks. Just that calm, steady gaze that only made her want to throw the nearest cushion at his head.
"I like the light here," he replied simply.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Well, I prefer it for myself."
"Take it, then," he said, closing the book and setting it aside as if he genuinely did not mind at all. "I can sit anywhere."
That easy concession threw her off more than she cared to admit. She had been prepared for a pushback, for something to spar with. His refusal to engage robbed her of momentum immediately.
Still, she pressed on.
"I thought you might be out... tending to your weeds," she said pointedly, folding her arms across her chest, lifting her chin just slightly. "The house felt blissfully empty without all that humming and... earthy presence of yours."
He tilted his head a fraction, smiling faintly. "You missed me?"
That one question nearly undid her entire plan.
Her lips parted instinctively, then snapped shut again.
"Hardly," she bit out, voice sharper now, fingers tightening where they curled over her elbow. "I was enjoying the quiet."
"Ah," he murmured, his tone so mild it felt like a caress and a taunt all at once.
She moved to the sideboard, fussing with the arrangement of flowers there, adjusting a vase that did not need adjusting, purely so she could avoid looking at him directly.
But he just sat there, entirely unbothered, watching her with that same infuriating patience, as though he could see through every sharp word and every stiff movement and found it quietly amusing.
She hated that.
It was driving her mad.
"Honestly," she said, her tone dripping with false casualness, "if you're going to loiter about the house like this, perhaps you could make yourself useful. The sitting room could use dusting."
Neville stood slowly then, and her heart gave an involuntary lurch at the sheer grace of that movement — smooth, unhurried, as though nothing she said affected him at all.
He did not rise to her bait.
Instead, he crossed the room to her, moving with that same quiet confidence that had undone her hours earlier, and came to stand just close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him again.
Not touching her. Not crowding her exactly. Just near enough that it made her breath catch again, her pulse leap to that same maddening rhythm she could not control.
He reached past her and plucked a leaf from the flower arrangement she was pretending to fuss with.
Then he spoke, his voice low, calm, and somehow even more dangerous than before.
"You seem... tense today," he said gently.
That was all.
No teasing. Just quiet observation.
It was almost worse than if he had laughed at her.
She spun on her heel immediately, turning away from him before he could see the flush creeping up her neck again, before he could catch how fast her chest was rising and falling despite her best efforts to appear cool.
Her retreat was deliberate but it felt like a defeat anyway.
She crossed the room slowly, each step measured and elegant, as though she had not just fled from his presence, and sat in the opposite armchair, curling her legs beneath her as she pretended great interest in the untouched book on the side table.
Neville made no move to reclaim the chair he had abandoned.
Instead, he remained standing for a moment longer, as if deliberately prolonging her awareness of his nearness, then finally sat in the chair nearest the fireplace, leaning back comfortably, utterly at ease again.
As if the kiss that morning had never happened.
As if her sharp words and brittle coldness had slid right off him.
As if nothing had changed at all.
Pansy sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on the book she was not reading, jaw clenched tightly, fury simmering just beneath her skin.
Because it was working.
His calm was working.
His refusal to acknowledge her retreat, her pointed sarcasm, her attempts to put distance between them — all of it was driving her mad.
And somewhere deep inside, she knew that he knew exactly what he was doing.
That knowledge only made it worse.
~
Evening fell gently over the house, shadows stretching long across the polished floors, soft pools of golden lamplight flickering against pale walls.
Pansy sat curled in the corner of the drawing room, a book open in her lap, though she had not read a single page for at least fifteen minutes.
Her gaze kept drifting to the empty doorway. Her ears were tuned sharply, waiting for the sound of footsteps, waiting to sense him nearby even though she told herself that she did not care.
The day had been a disaster.
Every icy word she had thrown his way, every sharp glance and cold silence, had landed with no effect whatsoever. He had moved through the house just as calmly as ever, treating her no differently, no awkwardness, no hesitation, as though he had not kissed her that morning like a man starved.
And now here she was, curled beneath a silk throw she did not need, pretending to read, pretending to feel settled when in truth every part of her felt... exposed.
She heard the creak of a floorboard before she saw him.
Neville passed the doorway without pause at first, heading toward the corridor that led to the study. His footsteps were soft but unhurried, the quiet rhythm of someone entirely at ease in his surroundings, as if he belonged here, as if this had always been his home and she merely lived in it.
And then, just as he crossed the threshold, he slowed.
He did not stop.
He did not say a word.
But as he walked past the back of her chair, he let his hand brush lightly along her waist, just the barest, most casual touch, as though it were an afterthought.
As though touching her had become second nature.
His fingers traced a soft path from the curve of her side to the edge of the armrest as he continued on his way, the touch so brief, so subtle, that anyone watching might not even have noticed.
But she noticed.
Every nerve in her body noticed.
Her entire body went still.
Her breath caught in her throat, sharp and sudden, pulse loud and insistent, the warmth of his fingertips burning through the thin silk of her robe as if he had pressed his entire palm flat against her bare skin and held it there.
The place where his fingers had grazed her seemed to thrum with awareness, as though her skin remembered every inch of that touch and refused to let it go.
He continued down the corridor without a backward glance, footsteps fading into the hush of the evening, so calm and casual it was as if nothing had happened.
But something had.
Something had shifted in that exact moment, and her body knew it before her mind could catch up.
Her fingers tightened reflexively around the book she had not been reading, knuckles pale, though she made no move to turn a page, no attempt to exhale fully or loosen the tension winding tight in her chest.
The book slipped slightly in her lap as her fingers loosened their grip, but she made no move to catch it.
The hallway was quiet again now. He was gone, his footsteps fading into nothing, no backward glance, no final remark, no acknowledgment at all of what he had done.
Just that one touch, that maddening, devastatingly gentle brush of fingers, perfectly timed, perfectly placed, so ordinary in its simplicity that anyone else might have dismissed it entirely, but it cracked her open anyway.
She sat frozen for a long time, unable to pretend otherwise, her body betraying her yet again, chest tight and breath coming too shallow, her mind looping uselessly as it tried and failed to reason with what she already knew deep down.
That single, unremarkable touch had unraveled her far more completely than the kiss that morning ever could have. It was not bold. It was not some obvious declaration. It was casual, effortless, natural, as if he belonged here, as if brushing his fingers along her waist in passing was the most ordinary thing in the world.
And that was what made it dangerous.
Her skin still tingled where his fingers had grazed her, a warm ghost of contact she could not shake no matter how tightly she gripped the edges of the book still resting uselessly in her lap. She wanted to call after him, to say something sharp and cutting, anything at all to reestablish her footing and make this moment hers again, but no words came. Nothing would come. Only the tight pull in her chest, the racing of her pulse beneath the surface, and the steady knowledge that her walls were already splintering.
So she sat perfectly still, breath caught somewhere between a sigh and a gasp, pulse thrumming quietly but insistently, unable to move and unwilling to admit defeat aloud. But somewhere deep inside, where she could not lie even to herself, she already knew the truth.
Longbottom had won again.
And he had done it without even trying.
~
Pansy had tried to ignore it.
She had sat frozen in the drawing room long after Neville had vanished down the corridor, his footsteps fading into that infuriating hush, the warmth of his fingers still burning at her waist, a ghost of a touch she could not shake, no matter how tightly she clutched the book in her lap.
Her book was useless now, nothing but a flimsy excuse for stillness. Her tea had gone cold again, untouched. Her throat felt tight, as though the air itself was pressing back against her attempts to breathe calmly, and her mind refused to cooperate, looping endlessly through every breath, every movement, every detail of that day.
She hated him.
Truly, absolutely hated him.
She hated the way he moved so easily through her house, the way he took up space without apology, the way he hummed softly to himself while tending those stupid plants like this was his home too.
She hated that small, serene smile that had not wavered once, not after the kiss, not after her sharpest retorts, not even after the way she had so clearly tried to push him away all afternoon.
She hated that kiss.
And she hated, with a sharp, burning ache, the way her body still responded to it, the way every inch of her felt alive and too sensitive and unbearably aware of herself.
Her thighs pressed together instinctively as she sat there, trying to pretend that she was not already trembling, trying to convince herself that if she just sat perfectly still long enough she could regain the balance she had lost.
But it was no use.
Her skin felt hypersensitive, the silk of her robe suddenly too soft, too light, too much against the heated flush of her body. Her breath was too shallow, catching unsteadily in her chest, and her pulse had taken on a slow, heavy thrum that seemed to echo in every corner of the room.
The very air around her felt weighted with the memory of him, as if the walls themselves were conspiring to remind her of what he had done, of what it had felt like to be pinned against that counter, of how easily he had stolen her breath and left her shaken.
It was impossible to ignore.
And the more she tried, the worse it became.
By the time she finally gave in and stormed out of the drawing room, her steps were fast, sharp, almost reckless, driven by something she could no longer control. Determined, desperate, furious with herself, furious with him.
She reached her bedroom and slammed the door harder than was necessary, the echo loud and final in the quiet of the house.
She locked it with a flick of her wand even though she knew perfectly well that Neville would never barge in, never press his advantage so crudely. But the thought made her thighs clench tighter before she even reached the bed.
She let out a sharp breath, dragging her hair down from its pins with impatient fingers, tossing them carelessly onto the floor as if discarding her composure right along with them. The silk robe slipped from her shoulders and puddled at her feet in a soft whisper of fabric, her nightdress following almost immediately after, discarded without ceremony.
She was shaking.
With fury.
With frustration.
With want.
Her hands trembled as she climbed onto the bed, pulling the sheets up around her without the usual grace and precision she prided herself on, every movement jagged and careless, a reflection of how thoroughly undone she felt inside.
She sank back against the pillows, eyes fluttering closed as she willed herself to think of something else, anything else, determined to wrestle her mind back under control.
But it was useless.
Every breath she took was filled with the memory of him, sharp and clear and unavoidable.
The way he had leaned in that morning, breath warm against her cheek as if it was his right, his palm cupping her jaw with quiet confidence, steady and certain, the rough, devastating pressure of his mouth on hers, stealing every last ounce of breath and sense from her body.
The quiet rumble of his breath against her skin, the solid heat of his thigh brushing hers as he crowded her so easily against the kitchen counter.
And then that final touch, far worse than all the rest.
That simple, infuriating brush of his fingers at her waist as he passed her by hours later, as if he owned this house, as if he owned her.
Her breath hitched again, sharp and almost painful, and she cursed aloud into the quiet of the room, furious at herself for being reduced to this, even as her hands slid down over her stomach, trembling fingers trailing lower with helpless inevitability until they slipped between her thighs.
It was supposed to be quick.
Just a release.
Nothing more.
A way to purge this maddening heat from her body, to purge the memory of him, so she could go back to pretending she was unaffected, untouched, entirely in control.
But even now she knew that was a lie.
Because no matter how she tried to frame it, no matter how quick or desperate or angry this was about to be, she was still thinking of him.
But the moment her fingers slid over her clit, finding it slick, swollen, and aching with a need that had been building for far too long, the breath left her in a sharp, shuddering gasp that tore itself from her throat before she could stop it.
She bit down hard on her bottom lip, teeth digging into the tender flesh, desperate to stifle the sound, but the effort was useless.
The pleasure spiked too quickly, too sharply, and her whole body jerked with the force of it. Her hips lifted into her own touch without her permission, chasing the sensation as if her body had finally stopped pretending she could go without it.
Her skin felt unbearably hot already, the heat coiling low and heavy, spreading outward until every inch of her seemed to hum with anticipation. It was the kind of heat that made her restless, the kind that made her legs press wider, her toes curl, her breath shorten until it came in shallow, erratic bursts.
Every nerve was alight, every muscle tightening with the greedy, impatient ache for a release she swore she didn't want, even as her fingers circled faster, slick spreading over her skin.
She hated how badly she wanted it. Hated how easily her body betrayed her.
Her breath caught in her throat as her other hand slid upward, fingertips dragging slowly across her stomach, nails grazing over overheated skin. She let them drift higher, teasing herself, tracing lazy circles over her ribs until they finally skimmed across her breast.
Her nipple was already hard, sensitive to the barest touch, and when her fingers brushed over it she let out a muffled sound that was almost a whimper.
She gave in to the pull, cupping herself fully, squeezing lightly before rolling the tip between her fingers, feeling the sensation travel straight down to the ache between her thighs. Her hips shifted of their own accord, chasing the friction against her palm, grinding into her own touch like she was powerless to stop.
It should not have felt this good. It should not have made her this wet, this desperate.
It should not have felt like his hand.
But it did.
She let her fingers trail lower, moving with agonizing slowness down her stomach until they met the hand already between her legs.
Her thighs trembled as she spread herself open, fingertips slipping through the slick heat gathering there.
She circled her clit once, twice, before letting two fingers slide lower, pressing lightly at her entrance. The sensation made her gasp, sharp and needy, and she didn't bother holding it back this time.
She pushed inside slowly, feeling her body stretch to take them, the tight, wet heat pulling her in deeper until her knuckles were flush against her.
Her hips rolled into it instinctively, shallow thrusts at first, her other hand still tugging and twisting at her nipple to keep her balance between pleasure and the edge of something far stronger.
Her mind spun with images she could not stop.
His weight above her, his hands firm at her hips holding her still while he watched her struggle to breathe.
His calm voice murmuring her name in that way that somehow made her wetter.
His mouth at her ear, speaking soft, devastating things as he pushed into her with the same slow, deep rhythm she now gave herself.
Her back arched higher as she imagined him pinning her again, his chest pressed to her back, his teeth grazing the shell of her ear before sinking lower, marking her throat.
She pictured the moment his patience broke, the moment his breath went ragged against her skin just before he kissed her like he had that morning—rough, breath-stealing, deliberate hands steady and controlling while her own will dissolved completely under his touch.
She curled her fingers inside herself, brushing against the spot that made her knees pull inward and her breath hitch violently. Her thumb found her clit again, rubbing in slow circles that matched the rhythm of her thrusts.
Every movement wound her tighter, made the pleasure coil lower until it felt like it would snap at any second.
She could almost feel the heat of his thigh pressing between hers, the solid weight of him there, keeping her in place. In her mind, he shifted closer, letting her grind against him until every brush of friction made her see stars.
She could almost hear that low rumble of approval in his chest, the sound that always made her thighs clench tighter.
She moved harder, her fingers working against her clit in quick, uneven strokes, chasing a contact she knew was not really there but felt so real she almost forgot she was alone.
Her hips lifted toward her own hand in frantic rhythm, her movements losing any pretense of control. She could feel the wet heat slicking over her fingertips, the way her body pulsed around nothing, desperate for more.
Her breathing had gone shallow and unsteady, each inhale catching in her throat before breaking out in a sound that was closer to a whimper than she would ever admit. The muscles in her stomach tightened again and again as if trying to pull her toward the peak faster.
She was furious.
Furious at herself for giving in to this.
Furious at him for making her like this without even touching her.
Furious at the way her body seemed to belong to him, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise.
The memory of his lips on her neck burned like a brand. She could feel the imagined press of his palm sliding between her thighs, replacing her own touch with his, fingers parting her slowly at first, then pushing inside with deliberate intent.
Her eyes squeezed shut, her jaw tight as she imagined his voice near her ear, low and calm, telling her to be still while his thumb pressed firmly against her clit.
She could almost hear him murmur that she was perfect like this, perfect when she stopped fighting. The image drove her hand faster, her middle and ring fingers sliding lower, pressing inside herself until she felt that delicious stretch, curling to find the spot that made her toes curl and her legs twitch.
Her hips rolled up into the movement in sharp, needy bursts. She could feel herself squeezing around her own fingers, could hear the slick sound between her thighs as she drove herself higher.
Her free hand was tangled in the sheets, pulling them so tight her knuckles ached.
Her head tipped back, lips parting as she dragged her thumb over her clit in messy, frantic circles, every touch a jolt of fire down her spine.
The tension coiled hard in her stomach, sharper and deeper than she expected. Her thighs were shaking so badly she could barely keep her rhythm, her movements erratic now as the orgasm surged up, too big to control.
Her moans pitched higher, breaking into soft, helpless cries as her back arched fully off the bed.
She could feel every muscle in her body draw tight, her breath catching one last time before her climax ripped through her like a violent tide.
It hit so hard she saw white.
Her body shuddered with the force of it, her fingers trapped inside her as her walls clenched around them again and again, the wet heat pulsing in time with the frantic beat of her heart.
A sharp, raw sound tore from her throat before she could stop it, echoing in the room as her free hand clawed at the sheets like she might fly apart without something to hold on to.
Her hips rolled weakly through the aftershocks, every tiny movement sending another shiver through her oversensitive skin.
She kept her fingers inside until the last tremor passed, pulling them free only when she could finally breathe again.
The air felt thick and hot against her flushed skin. Her chest rose and fell in uneven pulls as she lay there, her thighs still twitching, her hand falling limp against the mattress.
And in the quiet after, with her pulse still pounding in her ears, she hated that all she could think of was him.
When it was over, she lay perfectly still, chest heaving, breath ragged, every inch of her body humming from the aftermath, her heart pounding far too fast for what should have been a simple, forgettable release.
Her fingers curled weakly into the sheets, gripping them tight as if anchoring herself back into reality, trying to force her breath to slow, trying to convince herself that this meant nothing.
But it did.
She hated him.
Truly.
And yet... she knew this was not the last time she would find herself like this.
Not the last time she would lock the door, shed every layer of pride and silk, and surrender to the heat that only he seemed capable of igniting.
That realization made her stomach twist even more than the release itself.
She buried her face in the pillow and groaned, muffling a single bitter word she could not stop from escaping.
"Bastard."