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⚠️ WARNING⚠️
This chapter is gonna be a bit of tease (with some angst) so you've been warned.
If this isn't your thang, feel free to skip this chapter!
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She had cracked a window for fresh night air, letting in the faint sounds of the city while she camped out on the living room rug with her laptop, a blanket tucked around her waist and her socked feet with a mug of tea sat forgotten beside her. 

The coffee table was covered in a scatter of highlighted articles, hand-scribbled notes, sticky tabs, and her half-done thesis.

The TV was on for background noise—muted, but still flickering with the bright colors of the Beauty and the Beast. The classic Disney version she used to love as a child. She wasn't really watching it, but every now and then, her gaze flicked up from her laptop screen when she heard a line she knew by heart. Something about it always gives her comfort. Maybe it was the way Belle looked at the Beast like he wasn't something to be feared—but to be understood.

With her AirPod snug in one ear, her phone sat face-up on the floor beside her, playing a documentary off YouTube that John had sent her earlier in the week. It was about political negotiations and the long-term effects of cultural diplomacy in war-torn regions—exactly the kind of thing her professor would eat up. John had found it through one of his source, "Thought this might help, sweetheart."

It did.

Charlie had been typing for nearly two hours. Her attention drifted from the blinking cursor on her document to the notebook in her lap, where a few bullet points were scribbled in her neat, curved handwriting—surprisingly organized, considering how scattered her brain was before remembering John's advice on composition—mostly a military edition.

Halfway done.

And proud of it.

A small smile tugged at her lips as she leaned back, stretching her arms over her head before rubbing her eyes. She pushed her hair behind her ear and reached for her tea, taking a sip and grimacing at how cold it had gotten.

She checked the clock on her phone.

He hadn't come home yet.

Not late—but he didn't want her to wait for him. But, she is anyways.

Charlie glanced down at her laptop and ran her fingers across the keyboard before saving her draft with a quiet click. Letting out a slow exhale, it still needed polishing. Transitions. Citations. Maybe a bit more of a punch at the end. But deep down, a small part of her wanted to show it to him. To curl up beside him on the couch, hand him her laptop, and wait in silence while he read. Hell, she wanted to see that rare, warm smile like he was proud of her.

She bit her lip from smiling too big. Pushing her laptop aside, she hugged her knees to her chest.

"Hope you like it," she whispered to no one.

Then she turned back to her screen, her AirPod still buzzing softly with the documentary, while Belle danced in the background with the Beast under a glass chandelier. Until her AirPod rang through her phone when the name flashed on the screen:

Mum.

Her heart skipped.

It was late—too late for her mother to call.

She yanked the AirPod from her ear and answered quickly.

"Hey, Mum,"

"Hey," her voice came in calm, "hope I didn't mean to wake you up."

Charlie sat up straighter. "No, no—it's fine. Just working on my thesis. Um, yeah."

There was a pause, and Kate began, "Working late again, huh? That's good."

Charlie blinked at the sudden warmth in her tone, but something felt... off. Her mom didn't do small talk. Especially not with the way her voice flattened slightly in the next sentence.

"I wanted to ask you something."

"Sure."

Another pause.

"Are you seeing someone?"

Charlie froze.

The question hit like a sudden wind have slapped her face.

"Seeing someone? Like... dating?"

"Yes. Dating. Personally. Secretly." Her tone was still smooth, but there was a quiet pressure underneath it now.

Charlie laughed—awkward, trying to buy time. "Uh... no. I've been focused on school and—"

"Charlie." Kate cut in, not loud, not sharp. But firm. "Don't lie to me."

Her chest tightened. Her throat went dry and her palms flattening on the floor like she needed to brace herself.

"I—I'm not lying..." She trailed off.

"You're seeing Johnathan Price," Kate interrupted.

Her stomach dropped.

"I—" she started, then stopped again.

Kate exhaled slowly on the other end, like she'd been holding her breath the whole time.

"I wanted to believe that you'd be honest," she said curtly.

Charlie stood up abruptly, pacing now, her hand gripping her phone too tightly. "Why are you asking me this now?"

"Because I work with him, Charlotte," Kate's voice was rising, colder now. "And he's sixteen years older than you!You're my daughter, and I trusted you."

Charlie pressed her free hand to her temple. Her chest was rising and falling too fast. She couldn't breathe—couldn't think.

"We didn't mean for it to happen," she said, her voice small. "I didn't plan this—"

"He's my colleague. And you're twenty-three," Kate snapped. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Her mouth parted, but no words came. The rush of heat behind her eyes blurred her vision. Her throat locked up.

"He's not like that," she finally choked out. "He respects me. He listens to me. He's good to me."

"You think he's good to you because he knows how to handle you. You don't see the imbalance, do you?"

"What are you talking about? Mum, this is us. You don't know what it's like—what he's like when we're alone—"

"I know exactly what he is," Kate said, low and bitter. "I've known him longer than you've been out of school. And you're telling me I should just sit back and be okay with this?"

Charlie stopped pacing, her hand trembling as she clutched her chest. She could feel it now—that ache creeping in behind her ribs.

"I'm not a child," she said, her voice almost breaking. "I'm not stupid. You think I can't tell when someone's manipulating me?"

"I think you've spent your whole life looking for someone to make you feel safe," Kate replied, voice cutting clean. "And John knows that."

The tears came quick, angry and ashamed. Charlie didn't wipe them. She couldn't. Her hands were too busy shaking.

"No, you're wrong," she said, barely audible now.

And that silence—that silence from her mother? It was worse than yelling. When Kate scoffed, her voice was quiet.

"I don't trust him with you."

Charlie blinked, stunned. It was like someone had just shot a hole through her chest. Her knuckles turned white around her phone. Her jaw trembled—not from fear, but fury. She paced the floor like she was trying to out-walk the ache building in her chest.

"You don't trust him?" she echoed bitterly, her voice rising, cracking. "Fine. Then. you don't trust me, mother. That's what this is about, right?"

Kate didn't reply.

Charlie didn't wait.

"You don't think I'm smart enough to know what I'm doing. You think I'm some little girl chasing after a man who looked at me like I mattered."

"Charlie, I didn't say that," Kate frowned.

"Oh, but you're thinking it." Her voice wavered with heat, tears flooding her eyes as her chest tightened again. "You always expect me to be good enough. You expect me to live my whole life acting like I had everything under control, like I am fine! You think because I'm not some polished daughter with perfect grades! I can't make one decision for myself on what I want!"

Her breathing quickened.

"And, guess what?" she said shakily. "I made one. I picked him. I like how he makes me feel, mother! And he treats me like I'm not broken, like I'm not complicated or too much or too slow. He sees me."

Another silence, and Kate sighed hard.

"That's the problem."

"...What?"

"I know how John operates, Charlotte," Kate said, calm and sharp, like ice through glass. "You think this is the first time he's looked at someone like you? Young and desperate to be understood."

Her heart thudded.

"No—no," she said quickly. "He's not like that with me. We're not—this isn't some casual fling! This is real. He's not using me."

Kate was quiet again. Then she spoke with purpose.

"Have you wondered why he's been single? Why a man like that—decorated and respected—is alone at thirty-nine?" Her voice wasn't cruel, but it was harsh. "It's not because no one wanted him. It's because they did. And they couldn't handle what they found in him."

Her breath hitched in her throat.

"He keeps things buried for a reason. He doesn't let people in unless he's certain they'll stay quiet about what they see in him."

"Stop," Charlie said, voice barely audible. Her heart was pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

"I've seen what happens when people fall for men like him. You end up thinking ownership is love. That being consumed means being cared for," Kate said, her voice like flint.

Her eyes burned. Her knees gave, and she slid to the floor, her back hitting the side of the couch.

"Not everything he gives you is love."

A beat of silence, and the line went dead.

Charlie sat there, phone still in her hand, her chest rising and falling like she'd just run a marathon underwater. Her throat burned. Her entire body was buzzing with a hundred things at once—anger, shame, confusion, fear. She threw her phone across the room. It hit the edge of the rug and spun out uselessly, the screen lighting up with nothing. Her hands clawed at her scalp as she tried to stop the spiral—but the thoughts were coming too fast.

Why would she say that?

She gasped, her hands curling into fists, pressing into her chest as if that could hold her together. Her heart was too fast. Her breathing was too shallow.

She didn't want to believe her.

Wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her oversized jumper, it did nothing to stop the tears. They kept slipping down her cheeks, silent and relentless, stinging like salt in a wound she couldn't locate. Charlie stood up on shaky legs, leaving her phone on the floor where it had landed. Her chest felt too tight, like something was lodged inside, stuck between her ribs and her throat. She turned toward the hallway, bare feet padding down the wood floor.

The guest bedroom was only a few feet away—where she usually slept but as she reached the doorframe near the room... she stopped.

His bedroom door was closed.

She hadn't gone in there—not yet. He never forbade it. He just never invited her in, either. And she never asked.

Charlie stood frozen in the hallway, she sniffed. Swallowed hard. Then, before she could overthink it, she turned the handle. The door creaked softly open, like it, too, had been holding its breath.

She stepped inside and turned the light on near her.

It felt like him.

A space that reflected his personality—simple without any decorations. A sturdy queen-size bed, barren of frills and featuring a neatly arranged gray comforter, dominated the far wall. The comforter was smooth, with a subtle texture that hinted at its quality. To the left of the bed, a small gun safe was tucked into the corner, its steel surface marred by scratches and dents, telling a story of frequent use. On the right side, there was a nightstand sat a simple clock, a worn leather notebook with a pen slid through the spine. His watch lay beside it, neatly placed. His sidearm—carefully holstered—rested just beneath the nightstand in a locked drawer left ajar.

Various pieces of gym equipment were scattered across the floor, suggesting that this space wasn't just for rest. A bright blue kettlebell sat next to a set of silver dumbbells while a sturdy resistance band lay nearby. Each item was placed randomly, indicating recent workouts and ongoing commitment to fitness.

Her gaze shifted to the closet since the door was ajar to reveal a neatly hung row of clothes. All in muted colors. Gray, black, blue, and green. Then, she turned her gaze to a modest wooden bookshelf stood against the wall on the right side of the room. It held a small collection of nonfiction books, folders alongside some of the titles were military manuals. Others were histories of conflict, old intelligence records, even a few classics—Catcher in the Rye, 1984, and a heavily marked-up copy of Sun Tzu's Art of War. And there was a couple of photo frames resting close to each other.

Charlie stepped closer to the shelf, her curiosity piqued as she examined the ornate frame with a treasured photographs.

Inside the frame was the first aged image that captured a moment in time. Holding her breath as her eyes settled on the photo. It had been taken decades ago, judging by the colors tint. Standing in the middle was a woman, who was beautiful. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose bun, strands escaping in wisps around her gentle, smiling face. She wore a simple cardigan and jeans, one arm slung protectively around the youngest boy in the picture.

To her left stood a tall boy with a cocky grin and wild eyes—maybe the first child. He looked about ten or eleven, all limbs and attitude with his arms folded across his chest like he wanted to show off for a photoshoot. Next to him, just an inch shorter and neater to the tall boy was the middle. He looked around seven or eight, with calm demeanor, standing straight like he was trying to be the good—tidy haircut, hands at his sides, his chin up like he had something to prove. But it was the smallest boy—barely four years old, clinging to the woman's side—made her breath catch. He had a mop of unruly dark hair, wide blue eyes with a scraped knee poking out from beneath too-big corduroy trousers. One of his hands was clutching a toy car. The other was tucked into his mum's hand.

To John's left was a boy just a couple of years older than the first boy. Maybe he's the oldest than what she thought earlier?

Tall for his age, lanky with a small grin, he wore a long-sleeved white shirt under a denim vest, with sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. His jeans were faded with some dirt but not really dirty. His posture leaned just enough to say he didn't care much about impressing anyone. His arm was casually thrown over Marcus's shoulder.

As she moved her gaze from the first family portrait, she spotted another picture tucked behind it. Rougher around the edges and noticeably smaller, it seemed hidden away for protection rather than display.

Carefully, she lifted the frame; her breath caught as her eyes adjusted. It showed John much younger—clean-shaven except for a light stubble, his features sharper with the hint of youth still clinging to his angular jaw. His cropped, dark-faded hair framed ice-blue eyes that held the same watchfulness she remembered, though they weren't yet hardened.

There was a vulnerability in them that made her heart ache. He wore a faded green undershirt and khaki pants, dog tags peeking underneath the collar, and in his arms was a tiny girl. Dark red curls framed chubby cheeks with a pink Minnie Mouse shirt with a polkadots skirt with shoes, and her little hands gripped his shirt as if he were her entire world. She rested her head against his chest, her face turned toward the camera in a sleepy smile. Cam—no older than two.

That baby's grin sent a shiver down her spine, recalling the older Cam's eyes meeting hers in the café: still spirited, but far from soft like Charlie herself.

She studied the photograph again, struck by how John held his daughter as though she were everything.

Blinking hard, her throat tightening, she realized this wasn't the hardened captain she knew—this was a boy, barely a man, clinging to something real. Gently, she set the frame down and reached for the last one.

The third frame held a single image of John with a woman—Penny, whom Charlie had never seen but knew very little about her. Her hair was a warm, muted red falling past her shoulders, lighter than Cam's curls. Freckles dotted her fair skin, and her striking green eyes, locked onto the camera. A sun-kissed flush dusted her nose, and she smiled wide, perfect white teeth catching the light, one hand rested in his chest. He offered only a small smile in return, but it was the look of someone being present.

Charlie stared, sensing not a family resemblance but different: Penny's confidence shone like sunlight through the photograph, and in that moment Charlie understood why John had fallen for her once but with heaviness hinted.

She noticed the way he was with Penny in the photo wasn't the same way he was with Charlie.

With Penny, there had been youth.

With her, it was different.

Her heart twisted.

He had a family.

Had.

Charlie then glanced at the whole room.

Everything was neat.

She blinked fast, trying to focus. Trying to anchor herself.

Then she sat down at the edge of the bed—his bed.

Breathing in and out deeply, she didn't mean to cry harder.

But she did.

Her face buried in her hands, her shoulders trembling.

Not everything he gives you is love. Her mother's voice echoed like poison in her mind.

But this room... this place...

It didn't feel like prison.

She sniffled and wiped her face once more, her eyes drifting to the nightstand. A gentle curiosity urged her on. She opened the drawer next to the bed. Just to take a look. Just... something to divert her attention.

Inside, she found the usual items: spare ammunition, a flashlight, a few well-used field notebooks with dog-eared pages and shorthand notes she couldn't decipher. A multitool. A phone charger. 

But something else caught her eyes, a small amber pill bottles nestled toward the back, half-hidden beneath a folded cloth. She blinked, reaching in. One of them had his full name printed on the label.

Hydrocodone.

Another, a muscle relaxer.

Naproxen, extra strength.

All dated within the past few months.

She hadn't expected that.

He hadn't told her.

She turned the bottles in her hand, nothing some where already half-empty. It wasn't the meds themselves that made her pulse quicken. It was that he never mentioned them. The way he never complained of a pain he endured.

Charlie placed them back gently back into the drawer, her fingers trembling a little now.

Beneath these items, there was something black and coiled lay hidden under the notebooks. She reached out slowly and pulled it into view. A silk rope. Soft, smooth, and carefully coiled as if placed there with intent.

Her brow furrowed as she freed it, feeling the silky texture slip through her fingers. It wasn't meant for hiking or rigging gear.

She blinked, looking again.

There, partially concealed by the inner edge of the bedframe, lay a pair of handcuffs. Steel. Heavy-duty. Definitely not standard issue. Her fingers hovered above them.

She reached for them slowly, turning the cool metal over in her palm. They weren't dusty. Weren't forgotten. These were... used.

Her lips parted slightly, confusion furrowing her brow.

Was it for security? Backup restraints?

Her thoughts stuttered... until a quiet, naive question whispered across her mind.

Why would John keep these?

She blinked, her eyes darting from the rope to the cuffs as a strange knot of curiosity twisted inside her. She swallowed, still holding them when—the front door opened.

Click.

Her breath caught.

She heard it.

Then the heavy, deliberate thud of boots crossing the threshold.

"Charlie?"

Her body went still.

Another sound—the door closing.

A pause.

Then—

"Charlie?" his voice called from the main room.

He was home.

And she was in his room.

She didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Her heart pounded like a drum as she sat frozen on his bed, surrounded by everything that was him—and holding a piece of him she hadn't meant to snoop.

When she heard his boots again. Slower now. Louder. Moving toward the hallway.

"Baby girl, I'm here," he called again, this time closer. Softer.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Charlie could feel him—his presence filled the room the way thunder did before lightning. But it wasn't until the silence held for too long that she finally looked up.

And there he was.

John stood in the doorway. His eyes locked on her, scanning every inch of her—her blotchy face and her red-rimmed eyes.

And then he saw what was in her hands.

His jaw tensed.

But he didn't speak either.

Charlie, wide-eyed and stricken, noticed his hands.

His knuckles—crusted with dried blood. Split open. The skin bruised and cracked across each one.

She stared.

The questions came hard and fast in her mind.

What happened? Why is there blood on his hands?

But her lips couldn't form a single one of them.

His gaze flicked from the cuffs to her face again, and when he finally stepped in, it was slow. His eyes immediately swept the room out of instinct. Safe. Silent. He stepped toward the dresser at the far end and reached behind his back. She turned her gaze over her shoulder and watched as he unholstered the Glock 19 from his waistband.

He ejected the magazine, checked the chamber, then set the weapon down inside the top drawer, next to the leather holster and a spare mag. He closed it before he exhaled through his nose and looked at her.

"Why are you in my room?" It wasn't harsh but it held weight. More like a question and curiosity.

Charlie swallowed hard and lowered her gaze. Her eyes burned again, but this time, the tears pushed harder. Her voice came out fragile. Cracked.

"I didn't mean to. I just—" she paused, clutching the rope tighter without meaning to. "I needed you, and I didn't know where else to go—"

His expression didn't change, so he started moving till he stopped a few feet from his bed.

"I thought the guest room, but I couldn't. I—I didn't want to be alone." Her voice broke now. "I didn't mean to find these. I—"

"Charlie."

She looked up at him, her lip quivering. And then it all spilled out in one desperate breath. "My mum knows."

His brows twitched.

Charlie let out a small, strangled sound—half-laugh, half-sob. "She knows, John. She called me and said horrible things about you. About us. She doesn't trust me. She doesn't trust you."

His eyes softened, but his body didn't.

She sniffed, wiping her face furiously. "She thinks you're using me. That I'm just some broken girl who needs to be saved, and you're—you're someone who knows how to manipulate people."

He inhaled slowly through his nose. Frowning, he closed his eyes. Shaking his head slowly and his nose scrunched. He opened his eyes again with a hard stare. As he crouched in front of her now, his big frame lowering until he was eye-level. His bloodied hand reached out and he gently took the rope and cuffs from her hands, setting them on the floor beside the bed.

Then, he placed his hands on her knees and snake its way to her hips. He hadn't looked away from her.

"I know."

Charlie blinked. "What?"

"I know," he repeated, quieter. "Because she wanted me to break up with you."

Her mouth opened—but no sound came.

"Told me I had no business being near you," he continued, his tone unreadable. "That I was too old for you, too dangerous."

She shook her head quick and sniffed again.

"And she's not wrong about that last part," John said, voice steady. "I am dangerous. I've got blood on my hands right now. And yeah—some of that blood's fresh."

Her eyes flicked again to his knuckles.

"I did what needed to be done tonight. And I'd do it again if it meant keeping you safe."

Charlie moved her eyes back to him.

"I can't tell you everything," he murmured. "I've done things that would make most men lose sleep for the rest of their lives."

A pause.

"But I will never use you."

His voice was suddenly softer.

"I'm fighting for you."

She crumpled forward into his arms, finally letting the sob break free as he caught her—his broad hands wrapping around her like armor, holding her tight against his chest.

Just the sound of her breathing, stuttering and uneven. He held her until the tremble in her limbs began to fade.

And when he finally whispered, "I'm here, baby," she clung tighter like letting go wasn't even an option. The way he held her—like she wasn't fragile, but treasured—that made her breath catch again. She moved back just enough to see him, her fingers brushing over the worn fabric of his jacket. Her hand then moved and she touched his cheek. Her fingers felt the coarse texture of his beard. She noticed subtle streaks of silver near his chin as her thumb softly followed the line of his jaw, then moved upwards to lightly touch beneath his eye.

He closed his eyes for a second.

"I need you," she whispered.

His eyes opened again—slow and piercing, icy blue locking onto her tear-soaked gaze.

"I didn't know how long you were gonna come home," Charlie said softly. "You didn't want me awake but I missed you."

His brows furrowed just slightly, but she kept going, her hand still on his cheek, grounding them both.

"I didn't think I'd fall for you," she admitted softly. "But it happened, and now..." her voice dropped, breaking with truth, "I don't want to lose you."

John stared at her, his lips slightly parted, like the words hit somewhere deep—deeper than he ever let people see.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then—he leaned into her touch, allowing her palms to touch his cheeks more before closing his eyes again, just for a moment. He inhaled and exhaled before opening his eyes, this time they burned with need.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said huskily. "You hear me?"

She nodded.

Then, he leaned forward and kissed her. It wasn't rushed or rough, and when Charlie kissed him back, her hands gripping the front of his jacket, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. Her lips parted just enough for him to deepen the kiss, and when he did, she felt his fingers slid to the back of her head, threading through her hair, cradling her back head. He pulled back, just enough to look at her. Allowing his gaze swept her face until he gently eased her back onto the bed.

Her body obeyed as she laid back into the mattress, feeling his weight settling above her—one arm braced beside her head and the other caressing her waist like he needed to feel her body against him. She almost gasped as he pressed himself against her, her heartbeat beating fast against her chest as her eyes traced his weathered features face, down to his parted lips, then back up to his hungry eyes.

"What do you want from me, Charlie?" His voice came low, thick, and edged with restraint.

She stared at him. The question hit her deeper than she expected. Not just the words—but the way he said it. Like he sawher. He wasn't asking if she wanted sex—but if she wanted something more.

She didn't have an answer.

Instead, her hands moved instinctively—one trailing up his chest, curling into the collar of his shirt.

"You."

Something in his eyes flickered—confirmation. A need he'd known long before she had the words for it.

Need.

Not lust.

Not affection but raw.

"Please," she said again, a little more desperate now. Her fingers tightened around his shirt.

John kissed her again.

Harder this time.

As his mouth claimed hers, swallowing the soft sound that slipped from her throat as she arched toward him. His hand slid up her side, not rushing, just holding, anchoring her as their kiss deepened—his control still present, but loosening by the second. He kissed her like he needed her to know—that if she wanted him close, then close wasn't even the half of it.

He'd give her everything.

Their mouths moved in sync, heat building between them with every press, every slide of lips and tongue. She almost moaned as she could taste a bit of alcohol on his tongue and she almost moaned when her hands threaded into his hair, he let out a low groan against her mouth—he needed her. Her needed her softness before the rest of the world came crashing back in.

Charlie gasped softly into his mouth as his body pressed her further into the mattress, the heat of him wrapping around her like a second skin. His hand cradled the back of her neck again, and the other grip her hip possessively. Her legs curling around his waist, instinctively his weight shifted just enough to make her feel the promise of him. A soft moan escaped her lips as she tilted her head, granting him deeper access. John took it—his tongue sweeping against hers with a growl that vibrated in his chest.

He was losing control.

And he didn't care.

But then—Charlie broke the kiss.

Breathless.

Flushed.

Her eyes searched his.

"John..."

He stilled. The quiet sound of his name on her lips was enough to keep him present.

"What happened to you?" Charlie sat up slightly, her voice soft but edged with worry.

John exhaled through his nose.

"I did my job."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "What does that mean?"

He looked at her.

And that look—that calm, controlled coldness meant one thing.

"It means I handled it," he said simply. No emotion. No guilt.

Charlie swallowed, but she didn't press. Something in his eyes warned her that whatever happened—he didn't want her know nor worry. And maybe part of her didn't want to know either.

"He won't bother you again unless if he pushes his luck. I'll kill him."

And he leaned in, and his mouth was back on hers, stealing the question from her lips before it could form again. His hands—bloodied and all—slid beneath her thighs, lifting her closer as his hips within his jeans pressed flush against hers. Charlie gasped into his kiss, clinging to him as his body pinned her to the bed.

His mouth trailed to her jaw, then down her neck, biting softly at the pulse there before murmuring into her skin, "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," she said, breathless.

And John growled low in his throat as if those three words were the key that finally let him let go.

Charlie barely had time to breathe before his lips found hers again—rougher this time. His tongue swept into her mouth again, claiming, tasting, like she was something forbidden he'd waited too long to have. He paused and break away, only to look down at her, breath ragged, eyes dark with hunger.

"You feel that?" he murmured, his voice a rasp—low and thick, a little dangerous.

Charlie nodded, dazed, her chest heaving.

He leaned in closer, brushing his nose against hers before letting his lips ghost over her cheek, her jaw, her ear.

"That's what happens when you let a man like me in your heart," he explained huskily.

His words sent a shiver racing down her spine.

"You're mine," he breathed against her lips.

"Yes," she whispered.

He chuckled low. A dark sound that made her thighs press tighter around his hips.

"Good," he said, trailing his mouth back to cheek from her neck. "I don't loan. I don't share. And I sure as fuck don't let anyone take what's mine."

His hand slid between her legs, fingers brushing her through the fabric of her underwear, and she gasped. John smirked at the sound, loving the way she responds to him with sounds.

"You're already needy for me, yeah?" he muttered while moving his fingers in her sex slowly.

She tilted her head back against the mattress, eyes drifting upward to the ceiling before closing her eyes. Her chest heaved with each small cries and sighs she uttered, until he silenced her with a kiss, drinking in her sounds, savoring her whimpers like sweet honey on his tongue.

"Gonna make you cry with how good I fuck you," he growled between kisses, "and when I do—you'll thank me for it."

Her breath came in short, shaky gasps as he slid her panties to the side.

"You want me to take my time?" he murmured, his lips against her cheek, his fingers circling slowly—teasing. "Or do you want me to fuck you?"

She couldn't think. Couldn't speak.

"Speak, Charlotte," he ordered, but his tone was soft—too soft. It made her hips buck against him.

She gasped before she breathed an answer.

"Fuck me."

His grin curled—slow and devilish.