Chapter 1
Abbie and Ryan’s charged exchange escalates from texts to a daring command: 'Get on your knees when you walk in.' Will she surrender to his control—or fight back?
The air in Abbie’s bedroom was thick with the kind of silence that hummed—like a live wire, charged and waiting to snap. She sat cross-legged on her bed, the sheets tangled around her thighs, the thin fabric of her sleep shorts clinging just enough to remind her of how little she was wearing. The room was dim, the only light spilling in from the hallway—a sickly amber glow that painted the walls in uneven streaks. Her phone lay in her lap, the screen casting jagged shadows across her bare arms, her dark nails tapping restlessly against the glass.
Ryan’s last message still burned in her mind, the words twisting like smoke, impossible to grasp. "You know what you want. You just don’t like admitting it." She could practically hear his voice—low, rough, the kind of tone that slithered under her skin and coiled there, tight and suffocating. Her jaw clenched. She typed before she could second-guess herself, her thumbs moving with sharp, angry precision.
"Fuck buddy, what am I getting out of it, considering you don’t like free stuff?"
The words hung there, glaring back at her, daring her to hit send. She hesitated for half a second—just long enough to feel the familiar ache of frustration curdling in her chest—before jabbing the button with more force than necessary. The message disappeared into the void, and for a moment, the silence in the room felt heavier, like the air had been sucked out.
She waited.
One minute. Two.
Her fingers twitched. She could practically taste the bitterness on her tongue, the way her pulse thrummed in her throat. He’s doing this on purpose. Of course he was. Ryan always did. He knew exactly how long to leave her hanging, how to let the anticipation fester until it bordered on pain.
Then—finally—the three dots appeared.
Abbie’s breath hitched.
His reply was slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every second of her impatience. "Hmmm… You talking about me or you? Cause it is."
She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. Classic. Always deflecting, always twisting things just enough to make her question herself. Her fingers flew over the keyboard again, her nails clicking against the screen.
"Isn’t a house supposed to be complete?"
She sent it before she could overthink it.
The words weren’t about bricks and mortar. They weren’t about anything tangible at all. They were about the way he left her—always half-finished, always aching, always wanting. The way he’d kiss her until her lips were swollen, until she was trembling, and then pull away with that infuriating smirk, like he’d already won. The way he’d fuck her against the wall, his hands bruising her hips, his cock filling her so deep she could barely breathe—and then walk out the door without a backward glance, leaving her wet and throbbing and hollow.
Her phone buzzed.
She nearly dropped it.
Ryan’s name flashed on the screen, but it wasn’t a text. It was a call.
Abbie’s stomach twisted. She shouldn’t answer. She knew she shouldn’t. But her thumb betrayed her, swiping before her brain could catch up.
The line was silent for a beat. Then—
"You sound like you’re in the mood to fight, little mouse."
His voice was a blade, slow and deliberate, dragging over her skin. She could picture him perfectly—sprawled in that damn leather armchair of his, one hand wrapped around a glass of something amber and expensive, the other probably already palming himself through his slacks, just thinking about her like this. Frustrated. Needy. His.
Abbie swallowed. "Maybe I am."
"Good." The word was a growl, low and dark, and she could hear the smirk in it. "Because I like it when you’re feisty. Reminds me of how much you like it when I put you in your place."
Her breath hitched. Heat pooled between her thighs, traitorous and instant. She squeezed her legs together, but it didn’t help—the ache was already there, throbbing in time with her pulse. "You’re such a fucking asshole."
"And yet," he murmured, "you’re the one who answered the phone."
She hated him. She hated him.
But god, the way her body reacted to him—like a match struck in the dark, flaring hot and bright and out of control—made her hate herself more.
"Tell me, Abbie," he purred, and she could hear the shift in his tone, the way it dipped lower, rougher, like gravel under slow footsteps. "What do you want from me?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
What did she want?
She wanted him on his knees. She wanted him begging. She wanted his hands all over her, his mouth between her legs, his cock buried so deep inside her she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. She wanted him to stay. She wanted him to mean it.
But she couldn’t say any of that. Because Ryan didn’t give a damn about what she wanted. He only cared about what he could take.
"I want you to stop playing games," she snapped, but even as the words left her mouth, she knew how weak they sounded.
He chuckled, dark and knowing. "Liar."
The word slithered down her spine, and she shivered. "Fuck you."
"No, baby," he murmured, "fuck you."
The line went dead.
Abbie stared at the screen, her chest heaving, her fingers trembling. The call had ended. Just like that.
And then—
Her phone buzzed again.
A text.
She almost didn’t want to look.
But of course she did.
The message was short. Brutal.
"Prove it. Come over. Now."
No please. No if you want to. Just a command. A dare.
Abbie’s heart pounded.
She should say no. She should.
But her body was already moving, her fingers flying over the screen before her brain could stop her.
"Fine. But don’t expect me to be nice."
His reply was instant.
"Wouldn’t dream of it, little mouse. Door’s unlocked. Get on your knees when you walk in."
The screen went dark.
Abbie’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. She could feel the wetness between her thighs, the way her nipples hardened against the thin fabric of her tank top. She was already half-dressed for him—sleep shorts riding up, the hem of her top barely covering the curve of her ass.
She should hate this. She did hate this.
But god help her, she was already standing, already grabbing her keys, already halfway out the door.
Because Ryan had her by the throat, and they both knew it.
And the worst part?
She liked it. Loo
