𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥

𝟗|| 'The Inevitable'

" She was drawn to him, not like a moth to a flame, but like a soul to its doom. "
Unknown
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   𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋, 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 something I live by. It fuels my actions, shapes my decisions, and keeps chaos at bay.

It's something I've built my life around, the pulse that drives me forward. Each moment, carefully crafted, like sentences stitched together in a perfectly composed novel. I've always been the author of my own story, dictating every move with precision, every outcome predictable. But now – with the woman beneath me, her palms resting at my lower stomach and her touch sending electric signals, similar to the searing burn of fire licking at my skin, I feel the edges fraying.

The control I've clung to, that I've built my life around, begins to slip, unraveling thread by thread. Her eyes meet mine, and suddenly, the script I've always written, the one where I dictate the rules, falters. The sentences I once wrote with clarity blur, words slipping through my fingers like sand. Each choice I make no longer feels like mine—it's as if the pen is dragging my hand, scribbling out a narrative I never intended.

Control, once my greatest weapon, now turns on me at a single touch, breaking under the weight of its own perfection. I'm left grasping at fragments, watching as everything I've tried to hold together begins to crack and crumble.

Kyra Hart, the kind of woman whose presence commands attention without uttering a word. Her beauty isn't the obvious kind—it's subtle, sharp, like the blade of a knife hidden just beneath the surface. Her hair, dark and unruly, falls in curls, like shadows cascading down her back, framing a face that could belong to a sinner or a saint.

Her lips, cherry red —slightly parted—hold the promise of something dangerous, something that could ruin a man if he gets too close, and maybe that's the appeal.

Her touch is a contradiction, soft and warm, but it makes you feel exposed, like she can strip away all your defences with the brush of her fingertips.

Kyra isn't the kind of beauty that brings comfort. She's the kind that makes you question every decision, every ounce of control you thought you had. She's chaos, wrapped in elegance—an irresistible, beautiful storm. The kind a man like me should avoid.

"My, my," a smirk threads its way onto my lips as I tilt my head, assessing her shocked features. "What a pleasant surprise."

My words cause her to freeze, her body stilling as she blinks, once, twice to see if it's truly me whom she's bumped into.

She blinks a few times more as if to rid of the blurriness and zoom in on me. And then she gasps, prying her hands off of me like I've burnt her, looking down at them to see if she would find any burn marks.

"Are you following me?" Four words, six syllables—the first to exit her fuckable mouth upon my presence. Her voice, low and unamused, cuts through the noise like it's meant for me alone. The question lingers, loaded with layers I can't clearly unpack fast enough. Have I been following her since our first encounter, like some lovesick stalker with nothing better to do? Maybe. Hell, probably. But right now? At this very moment? Well, that's a question I don't quite have an answer for.