Chapter 88 Disagree to Agree
~Hermes~
Fuck.
No woman has ever threaten me with a "Kiss" before.
Kiss.
The word slices through me. My cock jerks against my zipper, and I force my palms flat against the bedspread to keep from dragging her down to me.
She’s standing close, but not close enough. Two fucking inches between us, enough that I can smell her perfume, see the rise of her breasts as her jacket slips off her shoulders. And I’m stuck here on the bed, looking up at her like she’s some goddess deciding whether or not to strike.
This is new, but I'm not surprised anymore, because it's June.
Her lust-filled gaze is on my lips: The one thing she is forbidden to have.
I scoff, sharp, trying to mask the thrum in my blood.
"You think that’ll scare me?" I mutter, voice low, dangerous. "Kissing isn’t part of the deal, June."
Her jaw ticks, eyes narrowing, heat radiating off her.
"Well, what if I want to add it?" she threatens, voice thick and teasing.
I stand up, walking closer, deliberately invading her space.
“Careful, June.” My voice scrapes out, "you don’t get to play with threats you can’t keep."
My hands trail down her hips, squeezing her ass roughly, but stop short of her mouth. Every inch of her is mine to touch—except her lips. I don't want that.
The restraint is razor-thin. My pulse thunders in my ears. I’m shaking, barely holding myself back from tearing the game apart. One wrong move, one breathless second of weakness, and this will all turn into something neither of us can control.
Her eyes glimmer, and then she swallows hard, voice trembling slightly as she drops the next question:
"But when does this… end?"
For the first time tonight, I lose my footing.
The question hits harder than her stripping or her teasing. My mind blanks, and the ache in my cock was swallowed by a different kind of pressure. She’s not asking like a fling or like a whore. She’s asking like this means something, and I don’t have a fucking answer. Not one I can give.
I drag a hand down my face, force myself to breathe.
Later, I tell myself. Later, after I’ve had her, after I’ve burned every ounce of sanity I’m clinging to, then I’ll deal with it.
I finally speak, voice steady, masking the storm inside:
"Anytime you want it to end, June. You walk, I won’t stop you."
Her lips curl in that triumphant, dangerous smile of hers.
"Then it ends with my internship," she says, as if convincing herself.
My chest tightens again, for a different reason. It's an end date, a goddamn finish line she thinks she can control.
I almost laugh. "Good," I bite out, leaning forward, fingers twitching against the urge to grab her ass again. "That means I’ve got time to ruin you before the clock runs out."
Her breath shudders, and because I answered, and we’re still playing her game, she bends, slips off her heels, and sets them aside.
I watch her straighten, watch the sway of her hips. My hands curl into fists, planning my next action.
"And also," she starts, slightly out of breath, "If I tell you to stop, you stop. No questions. No touching. Immediately."
I stare at her. That’s not a request—it’s a command from her.
My brows arch. No one tells me when to stop ever. She must be joking.
Before she can blink, my hand is on her throat. My thumb presses just under her jaw, forcing her chin up so I can watch her eyes widen. The other hand slides down her body, claiming her cinch before slipping lower—between her thighs.
Her dress is in the way, but I can still feel the heat of her pussy when I drag my fingers across her lips. She’s soaked, and dripping already. Wet while she’s trying to set rules.
"Is that what you think?" My voice scrapes low, rough in my throat. "That you can tell me to stop… and I’ll just fucking listen?"
Her breath stutters. Her thighs squeeze together, but she doesn’t push me away.
"D-Don’t…" A shaky whimper breaks. "No…"
For a heartbeat, I almost lose it. The sound goes straight to my cock, throbbing hard against my zipper. My grip tightens on her throat, my fingers pressing harder between her legs. I want to ruin her, and make her forget every rule she thinks she has.
But then she jerks back, stepping away, eyes flashing with something more than lust. Control.
"I mean it," she says, voice trembling but firm. "If I say the word, you stop."
I freeze, chest heaving. She’s not bluffing. I can see it in her eyes—the defiance.
I drag a hand over my mouth, forcing myself to breathe, to think. My body is shaking with restraint. "You don’t know what the fuck you’re asking."
But she looks like she does, and that’s the worst part.
Then I realize—I can’t say no to this and to her.
"…Fine," I grind out, each syllable tasting like surrender. "If you say it, I stop."
Her shoulders ease, but mine don’t, because for the first time in my life, I just let someone put a leash on me.
I’m still reeling from the fact that I let her get away with that rule when she smooths her dress and looks at me with that maddening composure.
"Are you done?" I rasp.
She shakes her head, lips quirking. "For now. But if I think of other questions or rules, I’ll add them."
I huff out a bitter laugh, leaning back like I’m unfazed. Inside, my jaw is tight, and my cock is still screaming for relief. "You really think you can keep stacking rules on me?" My voice drops, darker. "Funny. Because I haven’t even touched a single piece of clothing off you… despite agreeing to every damn rule of yours."
Her smile is instant—small, smug, dangerous. "Don't worry. I’ll take them off myself."
The air in the room shifts. I narrow my eyes, expecting her to fumble or hesitate, but no. She’s deliberate, confident, peeling herself out of her layers like it’s her game, and every move designed to strip me of control.
Then her voice cuts through, soft but sharp enough to slice:
"Go to the bathtub, just the way you are. I'll right there."
I almost laugh, and tell her to fuck off, but her tone shows it’s not a joke. It doesn't even sound like a damn request.
My chest burns with something I don’t want to name. I should refuse. I should drag her onto the bed and remind her who she’s dealing with. That’s what I always do, but I find myself standing, and wanting to obey.
Each step to the bathroom feels like a concession, it feels as though I am wrapped in chains tighter around me, invisible but real.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That once I’ve ruined her—once she’s writhing and begging—I’ll be free of this pull.
Still, my fingers twitch as I adjust my glasses watching her from the corner of my eye.
Because no woman—ever—has given me instructions the way June just did. And the sick part?
I want to follow.
"Do I get to take off my glasses?" I ask with one foot to the bathroom.