The sound of fabric tearing was sharp in the quiet room.

Slade didn’t even blink.

His hands were firm at her hips, gaze dark and entirely unapologetic.

“They were in the way,” he said simply.

No remorse.

No hesitation.

His fingers traced the ruined edge of her tights like he was assessing damage on a battlefield.

“You knew what you were doing wearing these,” he added, voice low and steady.

There was nothing rushed about him.

Nothing sloppy.

Just deliberate intent.

He leaned closer, breath warm against her skin, thumb pressing just enough to remind her who was in control of the situation.

“I don’t detour,” he murmured. “I go straight for the objective.”

Another slow drag of his hand along her thigh.

“Next time,” he said, eyes flicking up to meet hers, “buy a sturdier pair.”

Because if there was one thing Slade never did—

It was hesitate once he’d chosen his target.