Page 314 of Immune

His mouth pulls at one corner. Barely. “All right.”

I step away from the lumber, toward him, and he does not move. I hate that he does not move, and I love that he does not move.

“Ask me, Scar,” I demand carefully.

His stormy blue eyes darken a little more. “Ask you what?”

I walk closer, close enough now that I can see the flecks of shadow in the depths of his eyes. Close enough that his scent wraps around me and makes both bites on my throat ache. “Ask me if I want you.”

His chest expands on a slow inhale. “Dakota.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Ask me.”

His jaw tightens like the words hurt on the way out. “Do you want me?”

I should make some kind of joke. Maybe roll my eyes or bite back or act like my pulse isn’t currently trying to split my skin open and run for freedom.

Instead, I tell the truth. “Yeah.”

Fletcher doesn’t reach out to touch me, not even after that confession. His control feels like a living, breathing thing that hovers between us.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“You.”

“That ain’t enough.”

My eyes narrow on him then. “I’m sorry, what?”

His gaze doesn’t drop, not even an inch. “That ain’t gonna work tonight, darlin’.”

The irritation that sparks in my chest is familiar enough to steady me, to keep me stable and here and in control of my own damned body. “Careful, Scar.”

“You said you wanted me,” he says, pushing on despite my irritation. “I need to know how.”

My mouth goes completely dry then, all of the irritation bleeding away from me and pooling on the floor at my feet. Because that sentence isn’t said for theatrics. It’s not some weird little performance. And it’s definitely not an Alpha making a show out of consent.

This is just Fletcher refusing to assume something and possibly get it wrong. This is the same man who once made choices like shelter could be built out of commands, standing in front of me and making me draw him a damned map.

I swallow and answer, “I want you to touch me.”

“Where?”

“My waist.”

His hands lift slowly, and then they stop. He waits for my nod of approval and only then do his hands settle on my waist, broad and warm and so careful I almost hate him for it.

“Harder,” I say.

His fingers flex, but it’s not enough.

“Fletcher.”

His grip tightens, enough that I can feel the sheer strength in them. In him. It’s enough that my breath stutters from my lungs with a tremble I have no hope of hiding from him.

“There,” I whisper, and his eyes sharpen.

I put my hands on his chest and push, and he does nothing but let me. And honestly? It’s that more than anything that hits me the hardest. So I push again, and he steps back because I asked with my body. Because he understands me without me needing to say the words out loud.