Chapter 65: Grip*
She wasn’t the one leading this dance, but she should have been. She was supposed to be the one to seduce him, to be the one testing him, breaking him down. Instead, she was the one being broken.
And yet—
Justin didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did, and it was exactly what he wanted.
He hummed, low and deep, his voice like thick, dark velvet, slipping through the tension like he had all the time in the world.
"You’re shaking," he murmured, his thumb brushing against the inside of her thigh, so light it barely felt like a touch, yet it sent a shock of heat straight to her core.
She wasn’t even sure if he noticed how every light graze of his fingers had her body on high alert, like an electric current shooting through her, but she knew it was deliberate. He knew.
She clenched her jaw, struggling to hold herself together. "I’m not," she managed, her voice wavering slightly. She hated how it trembled. Hated how much control he had over her already.
His lips curved—slow, almost like a secret he wasn’t quite ready to share. It wasn’t a smirk. It wasn’t a grin. It was something worse. Something knowing. Something he didn’t need to say, but his expression said it all.
"Liar."
His voice, smooth and slow, wrapped around her senses like a noose.
And for the first time, she wondered if he could hear the way her breath came out unevenly, if he could see the tremble that shook her legs, or if he was playing some game just to see how much she’d break.
She opened her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to insult him, maybe to tell him to go fuck himself—but then—
Oh.
His lips.
Warm. Pressing, brushing, teasing against the curve of her thigh.
Not a kiss. Not yet. Just the ghost of it. Just enough to leave a breathless, aching reminder of how badly she wanted more.
She hated it. She loved it.
Every inch of her body screamed for him to stop. To pull away, regain control. Remind him who was supposed to lead this. But every fiber of her being said yes. Every nerve screamed for him to go further, deeper.
Her fingers twitched again, and this time, instead of pushing him away, they curled—gripping his shoulder, holding him there, like she needed it. Like she wanted it.
Like she couldn’t stop herself.
And Justin?
He noticed.
Oh, he noticed.
His lips barely grazed her thigh again, just enough to drive her crazy, just enough to leave a phantom burn in their wake. And then—
"I wonder," he mused, his voice a whisper against her skin. "Does your boss know just how easy you are right now?"
Her entire body tensed. What did he just say?
Her nails dug into his shoulder, sharp and furious, but there was something else in her grip now—something desperate.
"You little—"
"Shhh."
He cut her off effortlessly, his voice dripping with amusement, like he was so sure of himself, like he knew exactly what buttons to push to make her unravel. Then, before she could do a damn thing about it—
His lips finally pressed against her skin.
Slow. Soft. Deep.
And just like that, she fucking broke. She couldn’t hold it in anymore.
A breathless sound slipped past her lips—half a moan, half a gasp—and it was out before she could stop it. She hated herself for making that sound. Hated it. And yet, in the deepest part of her mind, a small voice whispered that she liked it.
His grip on her thigh tightened—firm, steady, grounding. It was like he knew. Like he felt it—the exact moment her body gave in, when her walls crumbled and the last vestige of resistance faded away.
Like he owned her.
And gods, how much she hated how much she liked that.
Her head fell back against the couch, a shudder rolling through her spine as his kisses trailed higher. Teasing. Deliberate. Cruel.
She wanted him. She needed him. The walls in her mind crumbled completely.
Her breath caught, a shaky exhale slipping past her lips. "Take me."
And then—
Justin stopped.
Dead. Still. Like someone had pressed pause on the entire scene, freezing everything in place.
Before she could process what the hell just happened, he pulled away.
Stepped back.
And stood up, looking down at her with cold amusement in his gaze, like he was watching some carefully crafted drama unfold before his eyes.
"What—?"
She barely had time to blink before his fingers curled around her wrist, firm but not harsh, and in a single motion, he yanked her up to her feet. She was so disoriented, so lost in the haze of desire, that she didn’t even fight it. He dragged her closer, his chest meeting hers in a collision of heat.
Justin tilted his head down, eyes sharp, burning with a sort of controlled amusement as he took in her breathless state. And then, with the audacity of someone who had every ounce of power in the room, he leaned in—his lips brushing against her ear, just for a moment.
Justin took his time, letting the tension settle in the room. The air was thick with that uneasy silence, the kind that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. He could practically feel her anxiety creeping in, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of rushing things.
No, this was his game, and he wanted to see just how far she was willing to push it.
And whispered—
"...You’re not worth it."
And then, he walked.
Right past her. Right out the door.
Leaving her standing there, breathless, needy, wrecked—without him ever needing to take her. Without him ever needing to finish what he started.
His parting words hung in the air like a cruel, final chord:
"Find me when you’re not following a script, sweetheart. When you’re not just another puppet on a string. Then maybe we’ll talk."