I lean in, lips curving. “Hmm, so you like me to be in control?”
“You think I care about what you control?” His voice drops lower.
“I think,” I say lightly, “that a man like you isn’t exactly thrilled by the idea of kneeling.”
A sharp breath leaves him. His fingers flex against the desk.
“Be careful,” he says softly.
“You be careful,” I echo, matching his tone.
His hand comes up, slower than a strike but with all the inevitability of one. Fingers trace my jaw, trailing along the lineof my throat—and then his palm settles there, the span of his hand wrapping easily around my neck. He doesn’t squeeze. Not yet. Just holds. His thumb rests against the pulse thundering under my skin.
Every thought I had scatters.
“Asher—”
He steps in until his hips press against the desk between my knees, forcing me farther back, crowding out oxygen, options, sense. The wood bites into my palms when I reach back for balance, my fingers splaying hard against the edge as if the desk can anchor me against him.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, his voice a low, commanding rumble that vibrates through me. His other hand slides down my arm, his fingers brushing against the inside of my wrist before he takes it, gently but firmly, and pins it to the wall above my head. He’s so close now, his body pressing into mine, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric of my clothes. “Do you think we have time for your little tantrums?”
I whimper, my free hand instinctively reaching for him, but he catches it mid-air, trapping it against the wall alongside the other. “Ah-ah,” he chides, his voice soft but laced with steel. “Answer me. Do you think we have time?
“No.” The word comes out breathy. “But I’m not throwing a tantrum.”
He lets out a low growl, the sound reverberating through his chest and into mine. His grip on my wrists tightens slightly as he presses his forehead against mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us. “So you’re not being a brat so I fuck you into paying attention?”
Fuck me.I shake my head no, but his hand tightens a little more, enough pressure to hold my focus, not enough to scare me. My lungs can’t remember how to work, but they do it around him, every inhale brushing against the bracket of his fingers.
“You don’t want me to fuck you?” he asks quietly in my ear.
My lashes flutter. “I do.”
“I know killer,” His thumb strokes the side of my throat. “But you need to show me you can listen to instructions first.”
He releases me, pulling back so abruptly my body sways. I almost reach for him on instinct, but catch myself and curl my fingers back around the desk instead.
He turns away, picking up a thicker folder from the stack he brought in. His composure slides back into place as if he didn’t just have his hand around my neck, as if my pulse isn’t still racing from the echo of it.
“Look at this,” he says quietly, the word clipped, decisive.
My voice takes a moment to show up. “What is it?” I manage, though my throat feels tight.
Asher opens the folder and sets it carefully on my knees, his fingers brushing the edge of the page. The contact is brief but enough to make my pulse hitch. Names stare up at me in tight, merciless columns—some highlighted, others underlined, a few slashed through so violently the ink almost grooves the paper.
My stomach drops hard. “What am I looking at?” My voice sounds thin even to me.
“The club,” Asher says. His tone is neutral, but his eyes track my reaction. “Council members. Crew leads. Patched Raiders withaccess to anything that matters. And the hanger-ons who matter more than they’re supposed to.”
I run my gaze down the first column. Johnson. Baylor. Reese. A few faces I recognize only from how they looked at me this morning—sideways, measuring, doubting, hungry, ready for something ugly.
My fingers tighten around the folder. “What are the marks? These highlights. These lines.”
“Trust levels,” he says. “Xavier’s trust, not mine.” He points, tapping lightly—highlighted names, underlined ones. “These, he trusted. These, he didn’t. And the ones crossed out…” His jaw ticks. “He was planning to move them.”
I swallow. “Move them where?” The question feels stupid, but I ask anyway.
“Out of the inner circle. Onto shit duties.” His eyes cut up to mine. “Or out of the club entirely.”