I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel it—his hand at my throat, the way his breath whispered over my skin like a threat wrapped in prayer. The kind of moment you don't forget.
You dream about it.
You ache for it.
You wake up harder than hell and twice as desperate.
---
The next morning, I wore a sleeveless shirt.
On purpose.
I wanted him to see the way my skin begged for more.
I wanted him to touch it.
To touch me.
---
He was already working on a truck when I walked in, bent over the open hood like a punishment sent from the devil himself.
I dropped my bag loud enough to draw his eyes.
He looked up.
And froze.
His gaze dropped to my exposed collarbone, my throat, my arms.
Then right back to my face.
He said nothing. But the tension curled between us, tighter than a noose.
---
All morning, I baited him.
I leaned in too close.
Bent over when I didn't have to.
Licked grease off my thumb slowly, eyes locked on him like a challenge.
He didn't bite.
Until I opened my mouth one step too far.
---
We were alone in the shop. The others had gone out for lunch. I handed him a tool and said:
"You sure your hands only know how to fix engines, Jesse?"
The silence that followed was deadly.
He set the wrench down. Slowly.
Turned toward me.
One step.
Then two.
He didn't speak.
He just backed me into the wall, one arm pressing across my chest, pinning me there.
"Say it again," he whispered.
I didn't back down. "I said—"
He grabbed my jaw, firm, fingers digging in just enough to make me shut up.
"That mouth," he said, voice low and dark, "is going to get you into trouble I won't apologize for."
I stared at him.
Felt the pulse throb in my throat.
Felt his body so close, I could smell the heat of his skin and the lie in his restraint.
"Then stop warning me," I whispered. "Start showing me."
His hand dropped from my jaw—straight to my throat.
And then his mouth was on mine.
Not a kiss.
A claiming.
Rough. Hot. Desperate.
My hands scrambled for purchase as he slammed me harder into the wall, grinding against me with a growl that sounded more animal than man.
"You wanted this?" he hissed into my mouth. "You sure?"
"Yes," I gasped. "Yes—fuck—please—"
His teeth closed on my neck.
Hard.
I cried out, the sound swallowed by the cavernous silence of the shop.
His mark bloomed there—sharp, aching, impossible to hide.
My first bruise.
My first real mistake.
Or maybe... the first true thing I'd ever felt.
He pulled back, breathing ragged.
Looked at me.
And for the first time—he looked scared.
"I can't—" he muttered. "I can't do this."
He turned away, jaw tight, hands clenched into fists.
"I'm not safe for you."
But I didn't feel unsafe.
I felt branded.
And I wanted more.