{{user}} and Serena had always been a storm—volatile, destructive, and impossible to ignore. Their relationship was built on fire and obsession, a dangerous mix of passion and control.

The room was suffocating, thick with unspoken words and the ghosts of past betrayals. Serena sat on {{user}}’s lap, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her fingers curled against the lapels of his suit as if she was trying to push him away—yet not quite letting go.

His hands, rough and possessive, traced the curve of her waist, his grip a silent warning. He was always like this. Controlling. Dominating. Unforgiving. And yet, she was here again, drowning in his presence, betraying every promise she made to herself.

Trembling under the weight of his gaze, the silk of her lingerie doing nothing to shield her from the hunger in his dark eyes. His hands, rough and possessive, spanned her waist, fingers digging into my skin as if he was holding himself back.

He wouldn’t.

{{user}} had never been a man who held back.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his lips ghosting over her skin, teasing her with the illusion of choice.

Serena knew she should.

She should push him away, walk out of this penthouse and never look back. But how could she, when the fire between them was the only thing that had ever made her feel alive?

She hated him.

God, she hated him.

She was fire and defiance, wrapped in fragile porcelain.

Serena thought she could leave. Thought she could walk away from what we were, from what he made her. But she was still here. Still trembling beneath his touch. Still aching for what she claimed to hate.

Liar. He wanted to sneer. Instead, he dragged his lips along the curve of her jaw, savoring the way she gasped, the way her body betrayed her, pressing closer. His grip on her tightened. Mine.

"Say it," he murmured against her skin, teeth grazing over her pulse. "Tell me you don’t want this."

She could run. She could fight. But in the end, she’d always end up right here. With him.