Iyisha's chest still heaved, but the fire in her eyes had dulled to something quieter, more resigned. She looked down at him, really looked, and the truth settled heavy in her gut.
No matter what she screamed, no matter how hard she pushed or pulled or begged with her body, nothing would change unless Malcolm wanted it to.
He was the one with the power here. He always had been.
The realization stung, but it also loosened something tight inside her chest.
She reached out slowly, her fingertips brushing the smooth plane of his cheek. Freshly shaved again. No stubble tonight, just warm, clean skin that made her palm tingle. She traced the line of his jaw anyway, her thumb grazing the spot where rough would have scratched if he had let it grow.
Why did she even care? He could walk out that door right now, go to whoever, do whatever. And she could too. They were not chained. They were not anything.
