Bad guy (REWRITTEN)

Chapter 8

Anna

The door sealed them in with a quiet snick, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Billie leaned one hip against the sink counter, arms folded, the faint metallic clink of her rings against porcelain the only sound for a long second. She looked at Anna the way someone studies a locked door they know they can pry open if they want it bad enough.

My back was still flat to the tile, but something shifted in my posture, spine uncoiling, shoulders squaring. She pushed off the wall in one smooth motion, not fast, not angry, just done being background.

"I told you to stop" The words landed clean. No tremor. No please tacked on like an apology.
Billie's head tilted, one brow climbing slow. Surprise flickered raw across her face before she could bury it under that familiar half-smirk.

"Did you now"

"Yeah" Anna took half a step forward. Not aggressive. Just refusing to shrink. "You don't get to keep going like it's already decided like I'm okay with it. You don't get to talk over what I say. I said stop. That means stop"

The air between them thickened, turned viscous. Billie's smirk faltered for half a heartbeat, genuine startlement, quickly chased by something darker, brighter. Interest sharpened to a point.

She straightened away from the counter. Closed the gap in two lazy strides until the heat rolling off her body pressed against Anna's front like a second skin.

"You're giving me orders now?" Billie's voice was low, amused, but there was a new edge under it—curiosity laced with heat.

"That's new"

I didn't back up. Didn't flinch when she lifted a hand and let her knuckles graze the line of my jaw, light, testing, not grabbing.

"I'm telling you what I won't allow" Anna said. Steady. "You keep touching me, like i allowed you, just ask. If I say no, you listen. That's not complicated"

Billie let out a soft, surprised laugh, breath against my temple. Her fingers paused at the hinge of my jaw, thumb brushing once over the pulse there, feeling it kick.

"Ask" she repeated, tasting the word like rare wine. "You want me to ask permission to put my hands on you"

I met her eyes, regretted what she said, not literal. "Fuck—no, thats not what i meant—"

Silence stretched thin and hot. Billie's thumb kept that slow, absent stroke along the underside of my jaw—almost tender, almost absentminded. Her other hand rose, hesitated, then settled feather light on Anna's hip. Not gripping. Just resting. Warm through denim.

"Fine" Billie murmured, cut me off. The word came out rougher than she probably meant.

"Anna"

Billie leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched. "Can I touch you?" she asked, voice gone velvet-soft, dangerous-soft. Her fingers flexed once on my hip. "Here" The hand at her jaw slid down, slow, until fingertips skimmed the collar of my t-shirt, dipping just inside to trace the delicate hollow at the base of her throat.

"And here" That same hand drifted lower, over fabric, circling the faint swell of one breast without quite cupping it, thumb brushing the hardened peak through layers of cotton and lace. Teasing the boundary.

"Maybe lower, too. If you say yes"

My lungs seized. The ache between her thighs sharpened to something almost painful.
Billie waited. Actually waited. No smirk. No push. Just those blown pupils and the patient burn of her hands hovering exactly where she'd asked to go.