D.
She laughed as she dodged his grasp, the hem of her dress slipping higher with each spin.
“Catch me if you can,” she teased, her voice all heat and breath.
He didn’t lunge. He didn’t chase.
He just waited.
And somehow—that stillness felt more dangerous than any pursuit.
She slowed, heart pounding, eyes locked with his.
Something in her stilled. Curled.
Why wasn’t he trying to grab her?
He reached out—not with hunger, but with certainty—and when their hands met, she didn’t run.
She melted.
His grip wasn’t possessive. It was primal. Anchored. Like he wasn’t holding her down—he was holding her open.
His lips found her neck as she collapsed into his chest, not because she was overpowered—
but because, for the first time, she felt met.
No need to flee.
No need to perform.
Just this.
Her body.
Her pulse.
And a presence that didn’t ask her to change…
Only to stay.