"You're going the wrong way," Nyla muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
"That's a sound," Wish announced immediately. "Two points remaining."
"I BARELY said anything!"
"Doesn't matter. Rules are rules."
Dusk pulled back slightly.
He looked at Nyla—blindfolded, restrained, already vibrating with the need to control something she couldn't control. He looked at the rigid set of her shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on the restraints, the jaw clenched not with arousal but with management.
Something in his expression shifted.
Not sympathy.
Irritation.
He'd done this before—not this ridiculous competition game, but the experience of someone trying to choreograph intimacy like a performance review. Managing every touch. Grading every movement. Treating connection like a task to be optimized.
He found it profoundly, deeply tiresome.
He leaned down again, lips brushing the swell of her breast—just the upper curve, nowhere forbidden but clearly sensitive.
