Chapter three – Tension That Knows No Mercy

The sun had long dipped below the horizon, leaving Freya's apartment awash in the golden glow of dim sconces and the flicker of candlelight. A moody playlist hummed from the Bluetooth speaker, sultry jazz vibrating through the walls like a slow heartbeat.

Nick stood near the window, framed in shadow, the city lights brushing across the chiseled shape of his cheekbone. His shoulders rose and fell with a deliberate calm, but his fingers flexed at his sides like a man gripping the edges of restraint.

Freya leaned against the granite counter in her kitchen, slowly stirring her tea though it had long since steeped. She watched him in silence, her eyes heavy with something unspoken. Something uncontainable.

"I should ask why you're still here," she murmured, voice low and thick with a challenging tease. "But I think we both know the answer."

Nick turned, slow and calculated, his dark eyes crawling across her like fingertips. "You haven't asked me to leave."

Freya's lips curled into a smirk. "That's not an answer."

He stepped closer, closing the distance one unhurried stride at a time. She could feel the heat of him before he touched her—like static, waiting for a spark. "Then I'll give you one."

His hand slid along the counter, stopping just shy of her hip. He didn't touch her—not yet. But his presence was magnetic, a storm she didn't want to shelter from.

"You like the way I make you feel," he said, voice gruff, low. "Even when I haven't laid a hand on you."

Freya's breath caught in her throat. Her body gave itself away, shifting slightly toward him, heat blooming low and dangerous in her belly. "You don't know what I like."

"Oh, I think I do."

His hand moved—deliberately—and brushed her wrist. It was such a small touch, but it landed like a drop of oil on fire. Her skin flared, the point of contact alive with anticipation. Freya let the silence stretch between them, her pulse loud in her ears.

She slid her hand out from under his, teasingly slow, and walked past him. But Nick didn't let her go far. His fingers closed around her waist—not roughly, but with a grip that said he could make her stop without even trying.

Freya turned, slowly, until her back was against the wall and he stood in front of her, his body not quite touching hers. But it was close. So close.

"You've been circling this all night," he murmured. "Are you going to keep pretending it's not driving you crazy?"

She tilted her head up, eyes narrowing. "What if I am?"

"Then I'll make you admit it without saying a word."

His mouth was so close now that his breath fanned against her lips. Still, he didn't kiss her. Instead, Nick pressed one hand against the wall beside her head and leaned in, letting his chest hover a whisper from hers. The heat from his body soaked through the thin satin of her blouse, teasing her already sensitive skin.

He moved slow, like he had all the time in the world. His free hand brushed her side, from ribcage to the outer curve of her hip, fingers dragging with deliberate pressure. He stopped just below her waist, thumb pressing into her skin in a way that made her gasp.

Freya didn't move. Couldn't. She was pinned not by force, but by the sheer, electric tension stringing every nerve in her body like a bow.

His voice dropped to a whisper. "Tell me you don't want me to touch you."

She swallowed. Her pulse hammered beneath her skin, her hands clenched at her sides.

He pressed his knee gently between her thighs—just enough to separate them—and leaned closer still, his breath warm against her ear. "I'll stop if you tell me to."

But she didn't. Couldn't.

Freya reached up, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him into her. Their bodies collided with a restrained hunger, and Nick's hands moved with slow, practiced control—skimming her hips, her waist, her back. He gripped her lower thighs, lifted slightly, and pressed her into the wall, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

His clothed body settled between hers, heavy and hot, grinding just enough to let her feel how hard he was beneath the denim. He didn't need to say a word. She could feel what he wanted.

What they both wanted.

His lips brushed her collarbone, teasing, then lower, breathing across the exposed slope of her chest. Her blouse had fallen open slightly, the silky fabric failing to shield her now-taut nipples beneath the lace. Nick let his mouth hover—never touching directly, just breathing warm and slow over her skin as if daring her to beg.

"You don't make it easy to behave," he growled, his voice vibrating through her. "You make a man forget what control is."

Freya's hands were in his hair now, fingers tangled tight, back arching into him as he dragged his mouth slowly down her sternum, over the lace barrier that begged to be removed.

But it wasn't.

Instead, Nick cupped her through the lace—firm, full—and kneaded with a grip that made her cry out softly, thighs clenching around him. She could feel him grind harder now, deliberate and slow, their breath turning ragged as tension climbed with no release.

He moved back just enough to look her in the eye. "If I go any further, there won't be going back."

Freya's lips were parted, eyes dark and needy. "Then don't stop."

Nick smirked—but he didn't obey.

Instead, he let her down gently, letting her slide slowly against him on the way. Every inch of friction left her shaking. Her feet barely touched the ground before he spun her, gently but firmly, pressing her front to the wall.

His hand slid beneath the hem of her skirt, up her thigh, fingers teasing but never delivering what she wanted most. Not yet.

Freya moaned softly, hips pushing back, desperate for contact. "You're playing a dangerous game."

"So are you," he breathed against her neck, biting her earlobe softly. "And you're losing."

He let his hand drift—lower, bolder—until it stopped just where it shouldn't go. His knuckles teased the edge of her lace underwear, heat soaking through them, skin slick with wanting.

He didn't move further. He just let it sit there—taunting her, promising things that would never come.

Not tonight.

Freya turned, breathless, pupils blown wide. "You're cruel."

Nick stepped back finally, eyes roving over her flushed face, the way her chest heaved, how her skirt was bunched high on her thighs and her blouse falling open.

"Cruel?" he said with a wicked grin. "No. Just waiting for the right moment."

And just like that, he stepped away, hands in his pockets like he hadn't just left her wrecked and wanting.

Freya watched him, chest rising and falling, lips parted. And then she laughed—soft, low, sensual.

"Next time," she said, her voice a dangerous promise, "I won't let you leave like that."

Nick's eyes gleamed. "Then I better bring a change of clothes."