She show up at my door.

She appeared at my door the minute the sun topped the neighbor’s roofline, shameless and glorious and incongruent as a myth: naked except for the diamond I’d chosen for her, the ring glittering on her left hand like a dare. Sarah pressed her body to the glass, fogging it with a heavy exhale and rapping her knuckle loudly enough to make the dog next door bark. She didn’t look tired, but her hair was wild, and the bite-marks on her collarbone had gone dusky purple overnight. When I opened the door, she breezed past me with the same arrogance she used to have walking into AP Chem, twirling her finger in the air like she was conjuring a chalkboard equation only she understood.

“Nice of you to answer on the first ring,” she said, holding up her hand, diamond winking.

I tried to keep my voice light, but my chest felt hollowed out and humming. “I assume you’re here to debrief me?”

She turned, eyebrow arched, bare feet ghosting over the hardwood. “Maybe I just missed you.”

She always left a trail of chaos behind—a towel here, a lipstick there, the faintest trace of perfume on my sheets—but this time it was just her, and the ring, and an aura of reckless victory. I stood aside as she made for the kitchen, poured herself a glass of orange juice, and took a long drink before perching on the countertop. She didn’t cross her legs. She didn’t blush.

“So?” I demanded. “You going to tell me what you whispered to Wiley?”

Sarah smiled, slow and sly. “I knew you’d ask.”

“Then answer,” I said, crossing my arms.

She set down the juice, licking citrus from her upper lip. “You want the truth, or you want to play?”

I tried to stare her down, but the challenge was already in her eyes, and the balance of power was tilting inexorably away from me. “Both,” I said.

She slid off the counter and stalked forward, hips rolling, eyes on mine. “I belong to him right now,” she said, her voice low, intimate. “That’s the rule. That’s what makes this fun. If you want the answer, if you want all of me, then you have to take it back. You have to reclaim me.” She leaned in so close that her lips brushed the shell of my ear. “So you’re going to have to fuck it out of me.”

By the time her mouth found mine, there was no room left for doubt or for games. Dispite her leaving him hours ago Her skin was still warm from Wiley’s sheets and slick in the crook of her thigh and sharp with the scent of sweat and sex. She tasted like orange juice and the battlefield of the night before. She shoved me back against the wall, hard enough to rattle the picture frames, and then pulled away just long enough to fix me with that infuriating, impossible grin.

“You said you could reclaim me,” she whispered. “Show me.”

Before I could say anything else, her hands were on my shoulders, pinning me, and she sank to her knees with the same measured confidence as if she’d been rehearsing this all night.

I grab her hair and yank her head back, forcing her to look at me. The diamond on her finger catches the morning light, sending prisms dancing across her naked skin. There's a challenge in her eyes, a silent dare that makes my blood burn.

"Tell me what you said to him," I demand, my voice rough with need.

Sarah's lips curve into that maddening smile. "Make me."

I haul her up, spinning her around and pressing her against the wall. My hands find her wrists, pinning them above her head. The engagement ring digs into my palm, a cold reminder of our bond, our promise, our twisted game.

"You think I can't?" I growl against her neck.

"I think," she breathes, arching back against me, "that you'll have to work for it."

What follows is brutal and ****, a claiming more than lovemaking. I take her against the wall, then on the kitchen floor, then bent over the arm of the couch. Each time she comes, I demand the answer; each time, she shakes her head, that infuriating smile playing on her lips.

"Not yet," she gasps, her body trembling beneath mine. "Not good enough."

Sweat slicks our bodies as I gather her up in my arms. She's still taunting me with that smile, that goddamn smile that tells me she's holding all the cards. With a growl that comes from somewhere primal inside me, I carry her down the hallway, her naked body cradled against my chest, the diamond on her finger catching light as her hand drapes over my shoulder.

I kick open our bedroom door and throw her onto the mattress with enough **** that the headboard crashes against the wall. The sound echoes through our apartment like a gunshot.

"Last chance," I warn, climbing over her, pinning her wrists beside her head.

Her eyes flash with defiance as she giggle "I am not yours yet, so Make me tell you."

I enter her in one powerful thrust that makes her gasp. There's no tenderness now, no gentleness, just raw possession as I drive into her again and again. The bed frame creaks beneath us, the headboard repeatedly slamming against the wall with each thrust.

And then I see it, something changing in her expression. The smugness melts away, replaced by something deeper, more ****. Her eyes lock with mine, no longer challenging but recognizing. This isn't just sex anymore. This is acknowledgment of what we've become together, what we've created between us.

"Yes," she breathes, her body yielding beneath mine. "Like that."

I redouble my efforts, fucking her with everything I have, determined to break through that last barrier. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, her fingernails digging crescents into my shoulders.

"Tell me," I demand, my voice ragged. "Tell me what you said to him."

She shakes her head, biting her lip as another orgasm builds. "Not yet."

The intensity builds between us, a storm gathering ****. Her body tightens around mine, her back arching off the mattress. I'm close too, so close, but I hold back, determined to outlast her.

"Tell me," I growl again, my control slipping.

But she just smiles through her pleasure, shaking her head as we both hurtle toward the edge.

When we finally break, it's together, her cry mingling with my groan as release crashes through us. I collapse beside her, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing ragged in the sudden quiet of our bedroom.

For several long moments, we lie there, catching our breath. Then Sarah turns to me, her eyes soft now, the game momentarily set aside.

"I told him," she whispers, her voice slightly hoarse, "I was ovulating." She winks at me, that mischievous sparkle returning to her eyes.

I roll over in sweaty bliss, a laugh bubbling up from my chest. "Wow... that explains why he thrust so hard."