Each word is delivered with crisp precision, and with each point she makes, she steps closer. Close enough that I can smell the faint strawberry of her shampoo, see the gold flecks in her blue eyes, count the faint freckles scattered across her nose.
“And if I want to leave the castle or visit the village,” she continues, her chin tilted at that defiant angle that never fails to make my pulse pick up, “Then I will. Do you understand me?”
I let her finish her little speech, let her think she has some semblance of control in this situation. It’s amusing, really—Robin Rivers laying down terms as if she has any leverage beyond the desperate love that’s driven her to this moment.
“Is there anything else my little bird would like to demand?”
My words drip with derision, but beneath the mockery, something else stirs. An unfamiliar thrill that has nothing to do with victory and everything to do with the fire blazing in Robin’s eyes. She’s not broken. She’s not begging. She’s standing toe-to-toe with me and demanding respect.
It’s intoxicating.
Robin steps even closer, close enough that if I reached out, I could touch her. Close enough that I can feel the heat of her anger.
Or is it a different kind of heat? I wonder…
“That’s the deal, Novak,” she says through clenched teeth. “Or there’s no deal at all.”
The use of my surname instead of my given name makes me want to laugh. She’s trying to create distance, trying to remind both of us that this is business, not personal. As if anything between us could ever be anything but personal.
She saw to that the moment she cracked my heart open and tried to wriggle her way inside.
“You are infuriating.” I grab her hips and slam her back against the door. Robin’s breath leaves her in a sharp exhale. But she doesn’t struggle, doesn’t try to push me away. Instead, she meets my gaze with that stubborn defiance that makes me want to devour her whole.
“And still delicious,” I murmur, before crushing my mouth to hers.
Robin’s hands come up to push against my shoulders for half a heartbeat before her fingers curl into the lapels of my jacket, dragging me closer instead of shoving me away.
Her body knows the truth even if her mind won’t admit it.
She’s mine.
I take what I want because Ican. Because I always have. Because I refuse to believe that anything in this world is off-limits to me. If I want the Gattos gone, I make it happen. If I decide later thatI want the Colombos gone, too, then I’ll makethathappen. And if I decide I want another thirty days to play with a delicious strawberry blonde from Las Vegas…
I’ll throw as much money at her as I need to.
So why is my heart beating so fast? Why does the feel of her mouth under mine feel not like a victory, but like I’m falling, swooping, flying?
We break apart gasping, but I don’t let her catch her breath. Can’t let her think too hard about what we’re doing or she might remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
“I’ll agree to your demands,” I say against her throat, my hand skimming up her thigh with deliberate slowness. “But only if you remember one thing.”
My fingers press between her legs through the fabric of her jeans, and I feel her whole body go rigid. “You belong to me, Robin. And I will expect my money’s worth.”
My words are designed to remind her exactly what she is to me. What she’s always been—a purchase, a transaction, a beautiful object for my collection.
But perhaps those words are supposed to remindme, as well.
Robin tries to speak, but only a whimper escapes as I press harder, finding the heat of her through a layer of denim. The sound shoots straight through me, starts up a throbbing in my cunt that seems to echo the rapid beat of my heart.
“Say it,” I demand. “Say that you’re mine.”
“I hate you,” she breathes, but her hips cant forward into my touch despite her words.
“Say you’re mine.”
“I’m not. Not the way it counts.”
“Liar.”
