Chapter 3: Let Me Taste That Tension

The next few days felt like a slow, smoldering fuse.

Suzanne could still feel the drag of Will's thumb under her lip, a ghostly memory that made her thighs clench every time she recalled it. She had to stop herself from texting him more than once a day. Had to stop herself from outright inviting him over at midnight with some excuse about a lightbulb or a wine cork.

But when he did text—"You free Friday night? I need another look at the shelf."—her stomach turned to fire.

Now it was Friday.

And Suzanne wasn't wearing silk this time.

She wore something worse.

A robe.

Thin cotton. Nothing underneath. No bra. No panties. Just skin and nerve endings.

She told herself she was being casual. Comfortable. It was her house, after all.

But really, she was daring him.

The doorbell rang at 8:02 PM. On time. Of course.

She opened the door and saw that same restrained storm in Will's eyes. His jaw tensed when he saw her. His gaze dipped down. Slowly. Then back up. He didn't comment.

But his chest rose a little harder than usual.

"Hey," she said, stepping aside. "Shelf emergency."

"Looks like it," he muttered, stepping in.

He moved through the house like he owned it. His body filled the space. This time, he didn't even pretend to care about tools or shelves. He walked to the kitchen, then leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

"You're playing a game," he said.

Suzanne walked over, each step deliberate. "Am I winning?"

Will stared at her. "You're not even trying to hide what you want."

She stepped in closer. "Neither are you."

His hand shot out, stopping just shy of her waist. Hovering. Trembling.

"If I touch you, I won't stop at your waist."

"Maybe I don't want you to."

Will's restraint broke just a little. He closed the distance, his chest brushing hers. Her robe shifted, thin fabric bunching up. His breath was hot on her cheek. His lips at her temple, not kissing—just breathing.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered.

Suzanne tilted her head, her lips grazing his jaw. "Keep going."

And that was it.

His hands moved, gripping the robe's belt. Not yanking. Just curling his fingers in the knot. His forehead rested against hers.

"This isn't casual," he growled. "This is pressure. Like... I'm going to break if I don't feel you."

Suzanne reached up and slid her hand beneath his shirt. Skin. Heat. Her fingers traced his stomach, and he groaned.

Then he pressed forward. Not fast, but firm. Until her back hit the fridge.

He didn't kiss her.

He breathed her in.

Her hands came up, sliding around his neck. Her thigh brushed his.

And she felt him.

Hard. Insistent. Trapped in jeans and pure tension.

Her body responded on instinct, hips arching toward him. Their stomachs pressed, chests rising together.

Will reached down, gripping under her thigh and hoisting it around his hip. It opened her robe slightly, enough for his palm to settle on bare skin.

"You're not wearing anything," he said, voice fraying.

"Do you mind?"

He shook his head. "I can't even think."

Then came the slow drag.

His mouth finally met hers. It wasn't gentle. It was hot, urgent, wet. Tongues collided. Teeth scraped. And still, his hands didn't explore too far—just gripped her thigh and the small of her back like he needed them to breathe.

She rocked against him, their hips grinding. Slow. Firm. Measured.

Will let out a sound—half growl, half moan.

Suzanne whispered in his ear, "Let me feel what you're holding back."

His response was a harder thrust against her. Controlled. But no less demanding.

The fabric of his jeans rubbed between them, but even through that, she felt it. Long. Thick. Pressing into her so perfectly it made her toes curl.

Her robe had slipped more, baring one full breast. Will pulled back just enough to look.

And then he knelt.

No words.

Just breath. And then lips.

Not quite touching—just ghosting over the soft swell, sending sparks down her spine.

He pressed his face there, breathing deep. Then, finally, he let his tongue flick across her nipple. Once. Twice.

Suzanne gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair.

He looked up at her, mouth wet. "I needed to taste you here first."

She could barely stand.

He lifted her then, arms secure beneath her, and carried her to the living room couch.

When he laid her down, he didn't climb on top.

Instead, he hovered, face near hers.

"You taste like silk and sin," he said.

And then his mouth was everywhere.

Kissing. Sucking. Tracing every inch of her neck, her chest, her sides. His hands roamed her thighs, up her waist, avoiding where she burned the most.

"Will," she begged.

"Not yet," he whispered.

And he went back to her chest, worshipping her curves with tongue and lips and just enough teeth to make her arch.

She throbbed under him, legs shaking.

But still, he didn't rush.

He built it. Slowly.

And by the time she came undone under just his mouth and hands, Suzanne knew there was no going back.

She was his. And he... was about to make sure she remembered exactly how it felt to be choked by the cream of his desire.