OneShot #3
You knew you shouldn't have gone to his place tonight.
A quiet apartment.
A sofa too soft.
A man who looks at you like he knows your next move before you do.
Christopher leans back in his chair, one foot braced flat on the floor, sleeves rolled to his elbows — deliberately. He's not trying to look relaxed.
He's showing you he doesn't have to try.
He studies you like you're a problem he plans to solve without mercy.
"You keep looking at my mouth," he says. "Why?"
You choke on a breath you hope he can't hear.
"It's…nothing."
You say, as you shake your head
He laughs once, dark and amused — the kind of sound that skims down your spine like a fingertip.
"That's not 'nothing.'"
His tone shifts — smooth steel under velvet.
"Come here."
Your pulse stutters, but your feet listen without permission.
You walk to him — close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Hands behind your back,"
he says.
The command is quiet.
And unstoppable.
You obey.
His eyes flick down your frame, slow, assessing. Not objectifying — claiming.
"You trust me?"
He says it like a fact he's simply confirming.
"Yes Sir."
"Good."
He stands — and suddenly there is no escape from his presence.
Chris is broader than you remember. Harder. Closer.
He lifts his hand, holds your chin between thumb and forefinger — tilting your face up until you have to meet his gaze.
"Look at me," he murmurs.
Like you could look anywhere else.
He steps behind you, the warmth of his chest brushing your back. His breath grazes your neck — one exhale and your knees weaken.
A soft sound escapes you — unguarded.
Chris's perspective (razor-edge control):
She has no idea how long I've wanted that sound.
Or what I'd do to hear it again.
His hand slides around your waist, fingers spreading at your hip — firm enough that you feel the authority in his restraint. He doesn't pull you closer. Not yet. He lets the wanting pull you on its own.
"You always act so composed around me," he says against your skin.
"So careful. So good."
His lips graze just beneath your ear.
"I could make you lose every bit of that."
Your breath breaks.
Because you know, he's right.
He smiles against your neck at the proof.
"Chris…" you whisper — plea or warning, you aren't sure.
"Yes."
One word. A promise he hasn't delivered yet.
His fingers trail along your hip, then down, slow enough to torture. He pauses at the top of your thigh — thumb pressing lightly into soft skin — enough to ignite, not enough to satisfy.
You swallow a sound he absolutely hears.
He turns you to face him — hands still behind your back.
You are open in front of him and restrained behind you.
He knows exactly what he's doing.
"You don't get to hide from me," he says. "Not tonight."
He lowers his forehead to yours, eyes heavy, voice deeper:
"I want you to tell me what you want."
You shake your head, breath trembling.
He tuts — soft chastisement.
"No," he says. "Words."
Your silence defies him — or tries to.
He drags his knuckles down your side —
— and your resolve collapses.
"I want…"
Your chest rises with the weight of admitting it.
"I want your hands on me."
His smile is slow. Dangerous.
"Where?"
You hesitate — and that's all he needs.
He catches your jaw again, guiding your gaze back to his.
"You asked for this."
His thumb slides over your lower lip.
"So you're going to tell me."
His voice lowers to a dark whisper:
"This is the test, sweetheart."
Your pulse answers for you — pounding reckless against his control.
You gather what's left of your strength.
"Everywhere," you breathe.
He inhales sharply through his nose — like he's been holding that need back for far too long.
"Good girl," he says — praise dipped in hunger.
Your arms are freed only when he decides to free them.
He threads his fingers through yours — not tender, but possessive — and lifts your hands to his chest.
"Touch," he orders.
You do.
Palms sliding over muscle and heat and the steady beat of his restraint barely holding.
He closes his eyes for a fraction, jaw tight — like your touch is the one thing that cracks him.
And that's when he loses the last thread of patience.
His hands find your hips — grip tightening — pulling you flush against him.
Your breath catches at the sudden closeness.
His lips claim yours — no hesitation, no doubt — a kiss that tastes like held-back desire finally unleashed.
He kisses like he wants to own the air you breathe.
One hand slides up your spine, fingers locking into your hair as he deepens the kiss — taking, learning, controlling the pace and depth and every sound you make.
When he finally lets you breathe, it's only because he wants to hear your voice.
"What do you think happens next?" he asks, breath rough, foreheads still touching.
You're trembling — every nerve wired to him.
"You tell me," you whisper.
He lets out a slow, victorious breath.
"Tomorrow," he says, "you'll try to act normal again."
He drags his lips across your cheek, down to the edge of your jaw — slow enough to ruin you.
"And I'll make sure you fail."
His mouth finds your pulse — claiming it with a kiss that leaves heat long after he pulls back.
"Because once I've started…"
His hand tightens at your waist.
"…I don't stop until I get every answer you've been afraid to give me."
You look at him — at the hunger, the certainty, the possession — and the truth hits you like gravity:
You're not going anywhere.
And neither is he.
"Christopher,"
you breathe, half warning, half want.
His smirk is sin incarnate.
"Yes," he says.
"And you're going to say my name like that again."
His hand slides up the back of your neck — firm, claiming — drawing you back into another kiss
This one deepens dangerously.
This one promises more.
This one ensures:
There will be no pretending tomorrow.
Only consequences.