Finger on My Throat

Serena had never been the kind of woman to be tamed. Her beauty was sharp enough to wound, her words could cut deeper than any knife, and she carried herself like a queen who’d long stopped asking for permission. But when Blade entered her world, she learned that some storms don’t ask for consent — they take.



He was the kind of man whose presence pressed against her chest without even touching her, whose eyes pinned her in place before a single word was spoken.



He didn’t believe in gentle introductions. He believed in breaking down walls — stripping away composure, tearing past defenses, and pressing until she had nowhere left to hide. And Serena, for all her stubborn pride, found herself drawn to the danger like a moth toward open flame.



This is not a love story. This is the story of surrender — the kind where breathing becomes an afterthought, where pleasure sharpens into something dangerously close to pain, and where one man’s hand on your throat feels more like possession than affection.