Slade Wilson didn’t usually ask permission. In war, in contracts, in bed—he was a man who moved with purpose, with command.

But tonight, the rules felt different. The room was dim, sheets tangled, heat rising between skin and silence.

She looked at him, that question unspoken but heavy in the air. A flicker of uncertainty, of control handed over—or challenged.

He met her eyes and smirked, slow and dangerous.

“I don’t hide from what I want,” he said, voice rough as gravel, “and I don’t pretend I don’t mean it.”

His hands slid over her hips, not rough, not fast—just deliberate. Possessive. Like a man staking his claim, not asking for space.

No masks. No armor. Just skin and want and a promise that tonight, nothing would come between them.

Not even caution.