Ben followed her inside, shoulder brushing the doorframe like even the cabin had to make room for her first.

The second the door clicked shut behind them, he exhaled—deep and quiet, like the air had shifted into something warmer just because she was here. He hung his coat next to hers, boots scuffed loose beside hers without needing to think about it, already syncing to the quiet domestic rhythm she seemed to slip into so easily.

Fire first, she’d said.

“Finally,” he muttered to himself with a crooked grin, “my boy scout trauma has a purpose.”

He crossed the cabin in long, easy strides, kneeling in front of the old stone hearth with sleeves pushed to his elbows and the same laser focus he gave a song he didn’t want to screw up. The firewood had already been stacked nearby—he’d made sure of it that morning—and the kindling basket sat just beneath. Pine needles still clung to a few of the smaller pieces.

He worked quickly but deliberately. Arranged the wood like a composition, all layers and breathability. Struck a match with a little flourish, glancing over his shoulder to see if she noticed.

“Moment of truth,” he said, then leaned in and lit the kindling.

The flames caught after a few false starts, flickering to life in a slow crawl before building into a crackling promise. He didn’t move for a second—just sat back on his heels and watched the fire take. Watched it glow like it understood what this night was supposed to feel like.

Then he stood, hands brushing lightly down his thighs, and looked over at her with a grin.

“Not to flex,” he said, “but I may have just reached peak masculinity. Axe or no axe.”

He walked over to her then, slow and easy, the kind of stride that matched the hum of the fire and the warmth curling between them. His hand reached out without hesitation, fingers brushing the side of her arm, then trailing gently down to her wrist.

“I know we joked about soup being the healer,” he said, “but I think it’s this. You. Here. This fire. This cabin. The way you look when you’re already thinking about rearranging the kitchen and hiding the good snacks from me.”

He leaned in, nose brushing her temple again—more deliberate this time.

“I feel you in this place,” he said softly, voice low and wrecked in the way only she ever got to hear. “Like you fit here. Like you made the quiet yours and just… let me in.”

He didn’t ask for anything in return.

He just let the moment hold.

Then, just as the silence thickened, he pulled back half an inch, his smile tugging mischievously at the corner of his mouth.

“Okay. Soup next. But fair warning—I’m very emotionally vulnerable after fire-building, so if it’s one of those brothy types without noodles, I will cry.”

He bumped her hip gently with his, warmth still tucked in his voice.

“Let’s make this weirdly domestic.”

Cleo watched the fire catch with a genuine spark of delight in her eyes, the sudden warmth of the room flushing her cheeks a soft, rosy pink. She had watched his little performance—the flourish with the match, the self-satisfied lean back—with the kind of fond, bubbling amusement that felt like champagne in her chest.

When he closed the distance, she didn't retreat; she rose on her toes to meet him, her hands finding purchase on the warm cotton of his shirt, smoothing the fabric over his chest as if checking his heart rate.

"I have to admit," she hummed, her voice light and teasing, though her eyes were soft with that reflected firelight. "The fire-building? Solid ten out of ten. I think I even saw a badge materialize on your chest. Very manly. I’m sufficiently swooning.”

She let him press his nose to her temple, leaning into the contact, soaking up the rough-edged sweetness of his voice. The way he spoke about her fitting there made her breath hitch, a quiet stutter in the rhythm of the evening. But before she could get too weepy about it, he was already pivoting to soup and survival, and she let out a bright, startled laugh.

"Do not panic. I promise there are noodles. I wouldn't do that to you in your fragile state," she teased, bumping her hip firmly back against his.

Then, her expression shifted, her eyebrows arching with sudden, playful curiosity as she latched onto his last words. Her fingers toyed with a button on his shirt, her gaze dropping to his mouth before flicking back up to his eyes, bright and searching.

"But pause," she said, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips. "I need to know more about this 'weirdly domestic' agenda. Because that sounds… interesting." She took a half-step closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes dancing. "What exactly does weirdly domestic look like in your head, Benjamin? Are we talking matching aprons? You serenading the carrots? Or do you have something specific in mind?"

She didn’t actually wait for him to answer. The potential for his answer was delicious, sure, but the reality of him standing there—looking like a lumberjack who’d stumbled into a rom-com and decided to stay—was too good to waste on just talking.

"Actually, don't answer that yet," she chirped, a wicked little gleam in her eye as she spun away from him. She kept a tight grip on his hand, towing him effortlessly toward the small kitchenette like she was leading him onto a dance floor. "I have my own vision. And it starts with you proving those hands are good for more than just carrying wood and looking artistic near open flames."

She released him only to hop up onto the sturdy wooden counter, the movement fluid and energetic. Her legs swung freely as she gestured royally at the grocery bags they’d dumped on the table earlier.

"Step one," she announced, bracing her hands on the edge of the counter and leaning forward, her smile beaming and infectious. "You find the biggest pot in this place. Step two: Noodles. Lots of them. If I can see the bottom of the bowl through the broth, you’ve failed the assignment. And step three..."

She paused, tilting her head, her gaze dropping to his forearms—still exposed, still lightly dusted with ash from the fire—before flickering back up to his face with a playful, meaningful look.

"You stand right there and chop things while I supervise," she declared. "I feel like 'supervisor' is a very critical domestic role. It requires excellent vision, high morale, and occasional taste-testing." She winked, kicking her heels lightly against the cabinet doors, the sound a happy, rhythmic thud. "Unless you have objections? I’m very open to negotiation, provided the negotiation involves you pouring me a glass of wine immediately."

Ben didn’t object—not really. But the slow grin that tugged at his mouth said he was about to.

He let himself be dragged, all faux-reluctant swagger and dramatically obedient footsteps, until she landed on the counter like she owned the place (because of course she did), legs swinging, hair catching the glow from the fire like a spotlight knew where to find her.

He stood in front of her, arms crossed, expression exaggeratedly pensive like she’d just outlined the battle plans for a very high-stakes operation.

Then—

“Well,” he said, dragging it out like it required serious reflection. “See, I was going to fully submit to your excellent supervisor plan, including the wine, the chopping, and probably the being bossed around part, which—don’t get me wrong—is wildly appealing.”

He stepped in closer, hands bracing on the counter on either side of her legs, leaning in just enough to nudge her knee with his hip.

“But,” he murmured, voice dropping like it was a secret between just them, “you forgot one crucial step in the weirdly domestic agenda.”

A pause.

“I want to smoke one of the joints we brought.”

He grinned, all boyish mischief and unapologetic charm, and leaned in a little closer—not enough to kiss her, but enough for her to think about it.

“It’s in my bag. Rolled to perfection. Waiting. Calling my name.”

He brushed his nose against hers in a fleeting, ridiculous almost-nuzzle, then pulled back just enough to hold up both hands in mock surrender.

“I’ll cook. I’ll chop. I’ll give you the single greatest soup-to-noodle ratio this cabin has ever seen. But I do think I should be allowed to do it while getting just a little high. For the artistic process.”

He was already moving again—grabbing the grocery bags like a man on a mission, tossing her a wink over his shoulder as he added, “You said ‘weirdly domestic.’ That’s gotta include stoned culinary excellence. It’s practically a rite of passage.”

He grabbed a wine bottle with one hand, a pot with the other, then disappeared momentarily into the bedroom to fish the joint from the side pocket of his duffel. When he came back, he offered her the wine with a little bow of reverence, the joint tucked behind his ear like some kind of retro cooking accessory.

“Glass for the lady,” he said, dramatically unscrewing the cap and pouring with flourish. “And mood enhancement for the chef. Honestly? Martha Stewart could never.”

He lit the joint with the same kind of care he’d used on the fire, took a slow pull, then exhaled toward the ceiling as if this was the missing piece of the evening all along. The glow from the fire lit up the side of his face, golden and soft, and when he turned back to her—pot in one hand, joint in the other—he looked perfectly, absurdly content.

“Alright, supervisor,” he said, settling in at the stove like he belonged there. “Let’s get weird.”

Cleo watched him over the rim of the wine glass, the liquid swaying slightly as she tracked his movement around the small kitchen. He was a whirlwind of frantic, delightful energy—part gourmet chef, part rock star, part golden retriever who’d just been told he was a very good boy.

“Martha would have paired it with a nice chardonnay and a table arrangement,” she countered, her voice laced with amusement as she set her glass down on the counter behind her. “But I suppose I can’t argue with the pursuit of excellence. If we’re aiming for the history books, we can’t cut corners.”

She watched him stir the empty pot for a second, looking entirely too pleased with his own reflection in the metal, before she made her move.
With the casual dexterity of someone who knew exactly where his attention was (on the stove) and where it wasn't (his right hand), she reached out and plucked the joint from between his fingers.

“Tax,” she murmured, flashing a grin that mirrored his own mischievousness. She brought it to her lips, the paper still warm from his touch, and took a slow, deep drag. She held his gaze as she exhaled, a thin ribbon of smoke drifting between them, turning silver and blue in the firelight. “You said ‘weirdly domestic.’ I’m just doing my part to keep the vibes consistent.”

The haze of the smoke and the warmth of the fire seemed to blur the edges of the room, narrowing the world down to just the space between his flannel shirt and her knees. The sudden, overwhelming surge of affection wasn't because of the high—it was too sharp, too immediate for that. It was just him. It was the way the firelight caught the messy waves of his hair, and the way he looked at a pot of soup like it was a symphony he was conducting just for her.

She shifted forward on the counter, invading his personal space until her knees bumped against his thighs. Before he could make another joke or toss in another ingredient, she leaned in, bypassing his lips to press her face into the curve of his jaw and neck.

He smelled like woodsmoke, expensive weed, and the crisp, cold air that still clung to his jacket. It was the most grounding scent she knew. She closed her eyes, breathing him in, feeling the vibration of his laughter or his breathing against her cheek.

“I love you, Benjamin,” she mumbled into his skin, the words vibrating soft and heavy against the side of his face. “Now make me the best soup of my life.”

Cleo lingered for a moment, watching his profile in the warm, flickering light, the domesticity of it all hitting her softer than she expected. Before he could get too lost in his culinary monologue, she reached out. She plucked the joint from his hand for a second time, ignoring his mock-indignant noise of protest.

“Just making sure the artistic process is… properly calibrated,” she murmured, the corner of her mouth quirked up.

She brought it to her lips and took a slow, deliberate pull. The ember glowed bright orange, a tiny star in the dimness of the kitchen, heating the air between them. It was smooth, grounding. She handed it back to him, her fingertips grazing his knuckles, and then leaned back, tilting her head toward the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling.

She pursed her lips, exhaling a long, thin plume of smoke. It swirled upward into the darkness, catching the firelight and turning a milky, translucent blue before dissipating near the rafters. She stayed like that for a beat—throat exposed to the fire’s glow, watching the smoke vanish—feeling the tension of the long drive and the busy week finally melt into the floorboards.

Ben gave a low, appreciative whistle—not for the soup, not for the flames licking the underside of the pot, but for the sight of her: smoke curling from her lips, neck tilted back, firelight painting her like some kind of stoned Renaissance muse.

He should’ve taken a picture.
Or dropped to one knee.
But instead—

He turned back to the counter and grabbed a handful of herbs with unnecessary flair, muttering, “Alright, baby. You want Martha Stewart? I got you Martha Stewart.”

He stepped away from the stove dramatically, one arm sweeping toward the nearby table like a contestant on The Price is Right. There, in all its chaotic glory, was Ben’s version of a table arrangement: a grocery bag turned centerpiece, stuffed with a mix of fresh parsley, two lemons, and a very confused bottle of sriracha. The salt and pepper shakers flanked it like security guards. A half-used roll of paper towels leaned drunkenly against a candle he hadn’t even lit.

He gestured at it proudly. “Suck it, Martha. And let’s be honest—she would never look this good doing it.”

With a cocky wink and a satisfied chef’s kiss to the air, he strutted back to the cutting board.

Soup prep resumed.

He lit the joint again, careful—so careful—to blow the ash away from the pot like a man who’d learned his lesson once and only once. He diced with surprising precision for someone currently halfway high, the vegetables piling neatly beside him. Onion. Celery. Carrot. A dash of chili flakes, because domestic didn’t have to mean boring.

But god, he kept getting distracted.

By the sound of her laugh.
By the lazy swing of her foot against the counter.
By the way her lips curled every time she stole the joint back like it belonged to her now.

He wasn’t even mad.

She looked like smoke and firelight and home, and it was a miracle he remembered to stir the damn pot before the noodles went in. He turned the heat down a little, watching the bubbles rise lazily to the surface. A few drops of broth splattered onto the stovetop, and he didn’t even flinch.

She was still watching him.

And he didn’t want to miss a second of it.

He passed her the joint with a reverent little bow, letting their fingers graze again. “Careful,” he said lightly, “You keep looking at me like that, and I’m gonna burn the soup and my reputation.”

He returned to the counter, this time grating garlic like it owed him money.

A beat.

Then—without turning—he added casually, “You know I love you too, right?”

No theatrics. No lead-in.

Just the truth, dropped into the room like a note on the nightstand.

He glanced over his shoulder to meet her eyes, the ghost of a grin playing on his lips. “Like, aggressively.”

Then he turned back to the soup, cheeks flushed in the glow, hiding his soft behind the steam.

Cleo surveyed the table arrangement with the grave, contemplative expression of a high-end art critic standing before a controversial installation at the Met. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, the glass cooling her palm as she swung her legs gently, heels bumping rhythmically against the rough wood of the cabinetry beneath her.

"I have to say," she began, her voice rich with suppressed laughter, "the spatial tension between the Sriracha and the half-dead paper towel roll? It’s brave. It’s radical. Martha isn't just shaking; she’s filing a cease and desist."

She watched him over the rim of her glass, the firelight catching the sharp line of his jaw as he went to war with the garlic. This—this—was the version of him that ruined her for anyone else. The world got the rockstar, the carefully curated swagger, the voice that filled stadiums. But she got the guy who made centerpieces out of grocery bags and diced carrots like he was defusing a bomb. She got the mess, the warmth, the humanness of him. It made her chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming fullness that had nothing to do with the wine or the weed.

When he dropped the I love you—casual, over the shoulder, like he was tossing salt into the pot—she froze for a split second. Then, a slow, radiant smile broke across her face, softening the edges of the room.

Aggressively.

She set her wine glass down on the counter with a soft clink, abandoning it to focus entirely on him. She didn't hop down; the height advantage the counter gave her was too good to give up. Instead, she leaned forward, invading his personal space just as he turned back to the soup.

"Is that a threat, Wilder?" she teased, her voice dropping an octave, soft and smoky.

She reached out, snagging the back of his shirt to tug him a step closer until he was standing between her knees. She wrapped her legs loosely around his waist, locking her ankles behind him to keep him there, trapped in her orbit.

"Because if it is," she murmured, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from his forehead, her fingers lingering against the warmth of his temple, "I feel like I should warn you... I tend to escalate things."

She leaned in, resting her forehead against his, breathing in the scent of onions, expensive cologne, and the distinct, earthy smell of the joint he’d just handed off.

"I should tell you the truth, though," she whispered, the humor melting into something fierce and solid. "I am not only in love with Benjamin, but I’m also in love and appreciate Ben Wilder. If we are being honest, I am his number one fan. I know all the lyrics, to all the songs, especially the ones about me.”

Benjamin felt the air leave his lungs, not because he was winded, but because she had just pulled the rug out from under his carefully constructed "domestic" peace.

He stood trapped between her thighs, the simmering pot of soup forgotten and bubbling behind him, its steam curling around them like a veil. He had been playing at being the house husband, the quiet man, the safe harbor. But her admission—that she loved the icon just as much as the man—sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity straight to his core.

His hands, still smelling of garlic and earth, found her waist. He didn't just touch her; he gripped her, his fingers digging into the soft denim of her jeans, pulling her forward until her heat was a living thing against his chest.

"His number one fan, huh?" he rasped, his voice losing the playful cabin-breeziness and dropping into that low, vibrating grit that usually only came out under stage lights.

He leaned in, his nose grazing hers, his breath hot against her lips. The "Benjamin" in him wanted to kiss her forehead and thank her for seeing him so clearly. But the "Ben Wilder" in him—the one fueled by adrenaline and the raw power of being wanted by thousands—wanted to take that confession and use it to wreck her.

On tour, the sex was a transaction of energy. It was vulgar, loud, and entirely about the friction of two bodies trying to forget they were lonely. It was degrading because there was no soul in it. But with Cleo? With Cleo, he could bring that same animalistic intensity and know that she was the one holding the leash.

"You like those songs, baby?" he whispered, his thumb dragging hard across her lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the damp pink of her inner mouth. "The ones where I’m screaming for you? The ones where I’m telling ten thousand people exactly how it feels when you’re underneath me?"

He moved his hands from her waist to the backs of her thighs, hitching her closer to the edge of the counter. The movement was possessive, a stark departure from the guy who had just been joking about Sriracha.

"Ben Wilder is a selfish prick," he murmured, his eyes darkening, pupils dilating until the iris was just a thin ring of amber. "He doesn't care about the soup. He doesn't care about being 'weirdly domestic.' He just wants to hear you scream his name until your throat is as raw as mine."

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, not with a soft nuzzle, but with a sharp, nipping bite to the sensitive cord of her throat. He heard her breath hitch—that sharp, jagged intake he lived for—and he felt his own body respond with a violent, heavy thud of blood to his groin.

"You want both of us?" he growled against her skin, his hands sliding up under her sweater, his palms hot and calloused against her ribs. "You want the guy who brings you flowers and the guy who pins your wrists to the headboard and reminds you who you belong to?"
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his expression a dangerous mix of reverence and hunger. The flirtation was gone; the seduction had turned into a claim.

"Because I’ll give you both. I'll love you until you're whole, and I'll fuck you until you're empty. Whatever you need to feel real."

He slanted his mouth over hers, the kiss tasting of the wine they’d shared and the fire in his blood. It was deep, wet, and demanding—a Ben Wilder kiss, intended to overwhelm. One hand stayed on her thigh, while the other moved to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair to tilt her face up, exposing her more fully to his hunger.

Cleo didn’t shrink away from the sudden, sharp violence of his tone; she bloomed under it. This was the paradox of loving Benjamin Wilder—you had to be soft enough to be his sanctuary, but tough enough to survive the storm when it broke.

She made a low sound in her throat as his teeth grazed the sensitive cord of her neck, a vibration that was half-whimper, half-purr. The rough slide of his calloused thumbs against her ribs sent a shiver racing down her spine that had nothing to do with the draft in the cabin and everything to do with the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure. He wasn’t asking for permission; he was taking inventory of what was his.

When he pulled back to look at her, she didn't just meet his gaze; she challenged it, her hands sliding from his shoulders up into the hair at the nape of his neck, gripping him just as tightly as he gripped her. Her eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and shining with a reckless sort of honesty.

"You think I don't listen?" she murmured, her voice breathless but steady, her thumb tracing the tension in his jaw. "I hear every word. I hear how you tear yourself open on that stage. And yeah... maybe I hate the cameras. Maybe I hate the prying eyes and the articles and the way people think they own a piece of you just because they bought a ticket."

She leaned in, brushing her lips against the corner of his mouth, teasing him, feeding that hunger he had just confessed to.

"But I’d be lying if I said I didn't get off on it, just a little bit," she whispered, the confession tasting like sweet wine and secrets. "Making thousands of women jealous? Walking through a crowd knowing that I’m the one going back to the hotel room with you? It’s a power trip, Ben. It’s intoxicating."

She tilted her head back, forcing him to look at her, to see the fierce possession in her own eyes.

"They’re my harshest critics because they’re starving, and I’m the one sitting at the banquet," she said, her voice dropping to a sultry, confident hum. "They look at me and they see the obstacle. They think if I just moved out of the way, there would be space for them."

Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him down until their foreheads rested together again, the steam from the forgotten soup wreathing around them like a stage fog.

"But the reality is harsh, isn't it?" she breathed against his lips. "Even if I wasn't in the picture... you wouldn't be theirs. You’d never be theirs. They’re chasing a ghost, but I’m the one holding the man.”

She kissed him then, matching his intensity, her tongue tangling with his, tasting the garlic and the smoke and the sheer, overwhelming force of him. She broke the kiss only to whisper against his mouth, breathless and ruined.

"So give me the selfish prick. Give me the rock star. Pin me down and remind me," she challenged, her hips grinding forward against his, seeking the friction, seeking the claim. "Because they can listen to the songs, Benjamin... but I’m the only one who gets to live them."

The mention of her being the only one who got to live the songs was the final snap of the tether. The "Benjamin" who worried about the temperature of the soup and the comfort of the cabin evaporated, replaced by the predator who thrived under the hot lights and the heavy bass.

Ben didn’t say a word. He didn't need to. He reached down and gripped the hem of her knit sweater, his knuckles grazing the skin of her stomach—hot, frantic skin—and yanked the garment up and over her head in one violent, efficient motion. He tossed it blindly; it landed somewhere near the forgotten grocery bags, a discarded relic of their domestic peace.

He didn't wait for her to adjust. His hands went to the clasp of her bra, snapping it with a practiced, ruthless flick of his fingers. He peeled the lace away, exposing her to the flickering firelight and the steam of the kitchen.

He stopped then. Just for a heartbeat.

He stood between her knees, his chest heaving, his eyes raking over her with a terrifying, singular focus. She looked like a masterpiece illuminated in a gallery—the curve of her breasts, the flush rising on her chest, the way her nipples were already peaked and hard in the cool cabin air. She was his banquet, and the hunger clawing at his gut was no longer about food.

"You're right," he rasped, his voice a jagged edge of gravel. "They're starving. And I'm going to make sure you're full."

He reached out, his hand sliding to the back of her head. He didn't caress her; he fisted his fingers into her hair, gripping tight enough to make her gasp, and hauled her head back. He stared into her dark, defiant eyes for a split second before pulling her forward with a sharp, forceful jerk.

Their mouths crashed together.

It wasn't a kiss; it was a collision. It was vulgar and wet and tasted of the desperate possession she had just invited. He used his tongue like a weapon, demanding entry, claiming the territory of her mouth while his other hand moved with a brutal, single-minded intent.

He cupped her breast, his large palm engulfing the soft weight of her. He didn't tease. He squeezed hard, his calloused thumb dragging over her nipple with a punishing pressure that made a muffled, high-pitched keening sound rise from her throat. He kneaded the flesh, marking her, his fingers digging in as he reminded her exactly whose hands were on her.

He broke the kiss just an inch, his lips wet and swollen, his breath coming in ragged hitches.

"Is this aggressive enough for you, babe?" he growled, his voice dropping into that filthy, stage-worn growl.

He shifted his grip on her hair, forcing her to look up at him, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat. He looked at her like he wanted to devour her, like he wanted to leave his fingerprints on her soul.

"I’m going to fuck you on this counter," he promised, his hand moving from her breast to the button of her jeans, his fingers fumbling with the metal in his haste. "I’m going to fuck you right next to the soup and the wine, and I’m going to make you scream so loud the neighbors five miles away know exactly who you belong to."

He leaned in, biting the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder, his hand finally popping the button of her denim.

"Tell me," he hissed against her skin, his hand sliding inside the waistband of her jeans, his fingers seeking the slick heat he knew was waiting for him. "Do you still want to hear the lyrics, or do you want the man?"

The bite was sharp, a stinging claim that made her vision blur, but it was the slide of his rough, calloused fingers past the waistband of her jeans that stole the breath from her lungs. Cleo didn't pull away; she arched into him, a willing sacrifice on the altar of the kitchen counter. The shock of the cool air on her bare skin was nothing compared to the searing heat of his palm against her, branding her, reminding her that for all her talk of independence, she would always burn the brightest when she was burning for him.

She felt completely, beautifully at his mercy. The iron-tight grip in her hair wasn’t painful—it was grounding. It told her she didn't have to think, didn't have to lead, didn't have to be anything other than his. She let her head loll back further, exposing the column of her throat to his teeth, a low, broken moan vibrating in her chest as he found the slick heat he was looking for.

"The lyrics," she choked out, the words ragged and desperate against the humid air.

Her hands, trembling with the same adrenaline that was turning his eyes into molten gold, fumbled blindly between their bodies. She didn't want the soft, considerate lover right now; she wanted the man who commanded stadiums to command her. She found the metal button of his jeans, her fingers clawing at the denim, desperate to free him, desperate to erase the last barrier between them. She tugged at the fastening, her knuckles grazing the straining evidence of his hunger.

"I don't want the quiet," she hissed, her eyes fluttering open to look at him, dark and glazed with want. She gripped his waistband, yanking at the fabric to pull him violently against her.

The moment the denim gave way under her frantic fingers, freeing him, Cleo let out a sharp, shattered breath. She didn't wait for him to bridge the gap; she dragged him forward, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist and locking her ankles at the small of his back. She needed the weight of him—heavy, grounding, and possessive—crushing her into the hard marble of the counter.

She felt small in his grip, fragile in the way a guitar string is fragile right before it snaps under a heavy hand, and god, she loved it. She loved that he was looking at her not like she was his girlfriend, but like she was a song he was trying to figure out how to play violently.

"You said you’d make me scream," she taunted, her voice trembling but bold, her hands sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders, her nails digging into the muscle there. She lifted her hips, grinding against him, seeking that friction, demanding he stop holding back. "So do it. Don't give me the acoustic version, Ben. I want the stadium tour. I want the noise."

She leaned up, biting his lower lip, tasting the copper and the aggression, her eyes blown wide and dark.

"Show me exactly who I belong to," she whispered against his mouth, breathless and aching.