Into The Cellar - Wren

My skin prickled.

I reached for my notebook—

And then I felt it.

Heat.

Presence.

Him.

“There’s something about you,” he said, voice slipping out of the dark like smoke.

“Something that just doesn’t fucking listen.”

I spun at the sound, heart jamming against my ribs as Holden stepped from the shadows, his frame cut clean by moonlight slicing through the old cellar window.

He wasn’t surprised to see me here.

No — he’d been waiting.

“I told you not to come down here,” he said, slow and deep. Not angry. Not yet. But close.

I didn’t flinch. “That was your first mistake. Telling me not to.”

He came closer. The air thickened with it—tension, dust, oak, heat—until I could feel it in my lungs.

“You think the rules don’t apply to you, Wren?”

“Maybe they don’t,” I said, lifting my chin. “Maybe I make my own.”

Holden’s mouth curved. Not a smile. A warning.

“Why must you defy me?” he asked, stepping close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

“Is it the power thing? The thrill? Or are you just that fucking reckless?”

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because the way his gaze dropped — slow, heated — told me he already knew.

And then it shifted.

His eyes swept down my body, stopping at the hem of the shirt, barely brushing the tops of my thighs.

His shirt.

He inhaled as if it had hit him all at once.

“What are you wearing?”

I didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

Because the truth was worse than the silence.

He stepped in closer, lifting his arms to grip the beam above us, muscles flexing as he caged me in, his body heat crashing over mine like a wave.

“You go sneaking around the estate… in my shirt,” he murmured, voice gone rough now.

“No shoes. No shame. Just bare legs and that mouth that won’t quit.”

I swallowed.

He leaned closer.

“Is it because you want me, Wren?”

My breath caught.

“That it?” he asked, lips at my ear.

“You want to know how close I was when I wore this last? Smell the heat of me in the fabric?”

His fingers brushed the collar and tugged it down over one shoulder.

“Does it make you wet?”

God help me, it did.

And he knew it.

“You don’t get to ask that,” I breathed, trying not to tremble.

He laughed once, dark and low. “Oh, sweetheart… I just did.”

His hand gripped the edge of the barrel beside me.

“You think this is just about a story?” he said, gaze burning into mine.

“You think all this defiance makes you powerful? All it makes you is mine to punish.”

My thighs clenched.

He was in control — completely — and the part of me that should’ve been afraid?

Was on fire instead.

“You don’t scare me,” I whispered.

“Then why are you shaking?”

“I’m not.”

“Lie,” he said, fingers ghosting along my jaw.

“I came here for answers.”

“No,” he said, voice almost a growl now.

“You came here hoping I’d catch you. Hoping I’d press you against one of these barrels and fuck the curiosity right out of you.”

I gasped, the sound catching in my throat.

Holden stepped even closer. My back hit the beam.

“You think I don’t see it? That you walk through this house like you own it, all fire and challenge, and I’m just supposed to play nice?”

I should’ve slapped him.

Should’ve stormed out.

But instead, I whispered, “Then don’t play nice.”

His eyes went dark. Dangerous.

He smirked and licked his lips like he already knew how this was going to end.

Like he’d tasted this moment in a hundred fantasies and was finally done pretending.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low enough to set fire to my spine.

I nodded.

That was all it took.

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my throat—not hard, not painful, but firm enough to make my breath hitch and my knees weaken.

The next second, his mouth crushed to mine—rough and claiming—like he’d waited too long for this and didn’t give a damn about control anymore.

I moaned, caught between the kiss and the brutal heat of his body as he pressed me back into the beam.

One hand gripped my neck, the other slid down to my thighs, grabbing and lifting me in one fluid motion.

The old button-down rode high as he pinned me there like I was his goddamn prize.

I didn’t fight it.

Didn’t want to.

I wrapped around him.

God, I wrapped around him like I’d been made for this.

Made for him.

“You want punishment, Wren?” he rasped against my mouth. “Then say it.”

I bit his lip in answer.

He groaned, deep and raw, grinding against me with a desperation that felt like possession.

“I told you not to come down here,” he growled, biting at my jaw.

“And yet,” I whispered, breathless, “you were waiting.”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t stop.

Just dragged his mouth down my throat and made me forget every question I’d ever planned to ask.

Because sometimes the truth isn’t what breaks you.

It’s the craving.

And I craved Holden Blackstone like the ruin he was.

His mouth was on my throat, hot and unrelenting, while his hand stayed wrapped around it, not choking, just holding, commanding.

Every nerve ending burned beneath his touch.

He thrust against my center again, slow and deliberate, letting me feel every inch of what I wasn’t supposed to want.

My back arched off the beam, chasing the friction.

He stilled.

His voice dropped—rough velvet over gravel.

“Tell me what you want.”

I swallowed hard, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

He ground against me again, the pressure maddening. So close. Too clothed.

“Is this what you wanted when you wore my shirt?” he growled, lips brushing my jaw.

“You want to smell like me? Feel me pressed against you every time you fucking breathe?”

My breath caught.

“You wanted this, Wren. Didn’t you?”

I nodded, but it wasn’t enough.

His hand tightened just slightly on my throat, holding me in place.

“I said—tell me.”

“God, yes,” I whispered, thighs trembling around his waist. “I want it.”

His teeth grazed my collarbone.

“That’s not good enough.”

He rocked his hips again, the thick ridge of him pressing hard through his slacks right against where I ached most.

My head dropped back with a moan.

He moved his lips to my ear, voice like sin.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Wren?”

I shuddered, lips parted, breathless. Everything inside me screamed yes.

Still, he waited.

“I want you,” I whispered. “I want you to fuck me.”

A growl ripped from his chest—dark, hungry, possessive.

“Say it again.”

“I want you to fuck me,” I said louder, voice shaking, pulse pounding. “Here. Now.”

He shoved his hand between us, his fingers dragging over my soaked heat.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re already wet for me.”

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, his voice a razor-edged promise.

“You have no idea what you just asked for.”

Then his mouth was on mine again—hotter, hungrier, darker than before—and I knew nothing else existed outside that cellar.

Not the storm.

Not the secret.

Not the danger.

Only the feel of him claiming every inch of me like he was done playing games.

Like he’d already decided that if I was going to chase the truth, I’d take it on my knees.

And damn it, I was ready.


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