Page 70 of Her Soul to Own

I blink. “What?”

His voice is lower now, a quiet command that vibrates down my body. “The dress. Now.”

My breath catches, my heart lurching into my throat. This isn’t just heat anymore… it’s a fucking adrenaline spike. I should say something sarcastic and drawl out a challenge, make it a game. But instead, I nod.

My fingers tremble as I reach up and slide one strap off my shoulder. Then the other. His gaze follows every movement like he’s memorizing every inch of skin I reveal. There’s no hesitation in his stance. He’s calm, composed, and somehow radiating more danger than I’ve ever seen in him.

Just as the dress slips past my hips, the door bursts open.

A girl stumbles in, phone in hand, her mouth already open to gossip.

That is, until she sees Silas with a gun drawn and pointed directly at her face.

“Jesus Christ!” she yelps, stumbling back. “What the fuck? Psycho!”

“Get out,” Silas growls, his tone flat and sharp.

She doesn’t wait. She just mutters something about security and quickly scrambles out. The door slams shut behind her, and he holsters the weapon like it’s a part of him.

Then, he turns back to me and says, “Continue.”

I’m frozen, my breath shallow. My dress is now a puddle on the floor, my body in just lacy underwear and pink strappy heels. The cool air kisses my exposed skin, but it’s nothing compared to the way his eyes rake over me.

He doesn’t speak. He just looks.

And that look? It’s possession. Hunger. Worship and punishment tangled into one.

I step out of the fabric and straighten, resisting the urge to cover myself. My nipples are already hard, my thighs slick with need. I feel raw, open. Like prey stepping willingly into the predator’s den.

His eyes roam over me, slow and methodical. His gaze lingers on my breasts, the white lace barely hiding the peaks, then down to where my panties cling to my soaked heat.

He steps forward. Slow, purposeful, and almost predatory.

My breath hitches as his fingers brush the delicate edge of my panties. He doesn’t touch my skin. Not yet. Just the lace—the little pink scrap that suddenly feels childish under his gaze.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Standing there, barely dressed and dripping for me.”

I want to deny it. I want to tease him. But I can’t. I’m burning and drenched, and my thighs are trembling from how much I want him.

Then, without warning, he grips the waistband of my panties in both hands. And tears.

The sound of the lace giving way is sharp, violent, and erotic in a way I never imagined something so simple could be.

It snaps, splits, and falls, slow as sin, down my legs.

I gasp as the cool air hits me. I’m fully exposed now. The tattered fabric flutters to the floor, catching around my heels like a lacy collar I’ve shed for him.

He doesn’t spare the scraps a second glance. Instead, his eyes are locked on the slick heat between my thighs.

I feel everything. The sting of the tear, the heat of his gaze, and the humiliating, beautiful thrill of being stripped bare not by accident but by force. By intention.

“You have no idea…” he says, his voice smooth and hot, “…how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

And God help me, I hope he never stops.

“Up,” he murmurs. “On the counter.”

My pulse jackhammers. The words aren’t loud, but they slam into me like a command wired into my bones. I turn, the marble counter hard beneath my fingertips as I lift myself up. The surface is cool against the back of my thighs, a stark contrast to the heat pooling between them.

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