Chapter 8

I couldn't do this anymore.

I had tried—really tried—to fight it.

But Cassian's hands were ruining my life.

I couldn't think straight. I couldn't work properly. I couldn't even hold a normal conversation without my brain short-circuiting whenever he so much as flexed his damn fingers.

This obsession had to end.

So I made a rash, reckless, completely unhinged decision.

I stormed into his office, shut the door behind me, and grabbed his hand.

Cassian blinked, caught off guard. Documents in his other hand lounging in the sofa. "Well, hello to you too."

I didn't answer.

Because my entire focus was on the object of my suffering.

His hand was warm. Calloused. Strong.

I turned it over in mine, running my fingers along his knuckles, feeling the roughness of his palm.

I barely registered that I was breathing heavier.

That my skin felt too hot.

That I was completely mesmerized.

Cassian, ever the jackass, smirked. "Well, well. You finally lost it."

I ignored him, tracing over his wrist, running my thumb lightly over the veins that stood out just slightly.

My goal had been to break the spell. To prove to myself that this was nothing.

Instead, I was getting hotter by the second.

Cassian tilted his head, watching me with pure, unfiltered amusement. "So, just my hands, huh? Nothing else about my goddamn hot body does it for you?"

I rolled my eyes, even as my fingers betrayed me by rolling his hand between mine.

"Shut up, Cassian."

He chuckled. Low. Amused. Dangerous.

 Since then, every single day, I found myself in his office, in the break room, in meetings, just… touching his hands.

Like a lunatic. Like a woman possessed.

At first, it was just a joke. Cassian humored me, teasing me, but he let me do it.

And that was the real problem.

Because the more he let me, the worse it got.

I memorized every part of them—every callous, every flex of muscle when he gripped something, the sheer power in his hands when he worked, when he touched me.

Not sexually, God forbid, but in those small, dangerous ways—guiding me through a door, adjusting my watch absentmindedly, letting me run my fingers over his knuckles when I thought too hard about them.

And every night?

I was a mess.

I couldn't stop. The memories followed me.

The way his fingers curled over mine. The way his wrist twitched slightly when he flexed. The way his thumb rubbed circles over my palm absentmindedly while we talked, like it was nothing.

Except, for me, it was everything.

Every night, I succumbed to it.

Every night, I used those memories, those hands, the way they felt against my skin, and let myself fall apart in the dark.

And it wasn't enough.

I should have stopped.

I should have let it go.

But I didn't.

And then, one day, I lost it.

It was one of those moments. One of the many I had made a habit of falling into.

Cassian was at his desk. I was beside him, my fingers trailing over his palm, tracing over the veins, rubbing my thumb against the dip between his knuckles.

It was a ritual now.

I don't even know if he noticed how bad it had gotten.

Because he let me.

He let me run my fingers up to his wrist, toy with his fingers, explore the shape of them. Thinking how rough those calluses are and if I use my tongue can I feel it more? 

And then. I snapped.

I wasn't thinking.

Not even for a second.

Because I leaned down.

And I licked his finger.

Oh. My. God.

The moment my tongue touched his skin, time stopped.

It was a quick flick—a stupid, reckless split-second mistake.

But I felt it. The warmth of his skin. The saltiness. The way his muscles tensed immediately.

Cassian went utterly still.

I pulled back, realizing what I had just done.

Realizing that I had just licked his finger.

Like a damn psycho.

Cassian's chair creaked as he leaned forward, slowly, carefully.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, unreadable.

"Sienna."

I could not breathe.

I didn't say anything.

Because what the hell could I say?

Sorry, I lost my mind for a second? Sorry, I've been obsessed with your hands for months and my brain just completely abandoned logic?

His lips curved into something dangerous.

"You wanna tell me," he murmured, studying me, "why you just licked my hand?"

I wished for death.