He studies me, as if searching for the leverage point.
"We can arrange that."
I face him.
"I want you to stop looking at me like I'm a hostage."
He walks to the bar cart, pours two fingers of whiskey into a glass, and sets it on the desk without offering me any.
"Hostages are liabilities," he says. "You're an asset."
"I'm an asset that doesn't work unless you give it oxygen. And if you keep doing this, I'm going to run."
He says, "If you run, I'll find you."
I say, "You'll have to catch me first."
At this point, his eyes light up with anger and he moves like a hurricane, and the next moment, he grabs my facewith both hands, palms firm against my jaw, fingers digging into my cheeks until my lips part around a breath I cannot catch.
His mouth devours mine, teeth scraping, tongues colliding, the pressure bruising and unrepentant.
I rise to meet him with matching fury, clawing at the collar of his shirt, pulling it until the seams strain, until the buttons snap and skitter across the floor.
We stagger backward, limbs tangled, mouths locked in a kind of desperation that feels older than memory.
My back hits the wall with a dull thud, and his thigh slides between mine, nudging me open, pressing up with force until I moan into his mouth.
He swallows the sound with a growl of satisfaction, one hand dropping to tug the belt from my dress, the other already twisting in my hair.
The dress, a wrap-around, falls and goosebumps rise all along my bare flesh.
His hands move without pause, rough and practiced.
I arch against him, nails digging into the muscle of his back, scoring deeply enough to leave marks he'll see in the mirror tomorrow.
He hisses through his teeth, then grins against my mouth, biting my lower lip until I cry out, the pain sharp enough to make my knees buckle.
I retaliate by sinking my teeth into the curve of his shoulder, hard enough to bruise, and he laughs, a feral sound that shudders down the center of me.
"You want to test me, is that it?" he murmurs, voice frayed at the edges, breath hot against my ear as he shoves me harder into the wall, his hand sliding down my bare thigh to hook behind my knee.
"You want to see just how far I'll go?"
I do not answer, because I do not need to.
I am already trembling under his touch, already leaning into the ache, already gone.
He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, arms locked under my thighs, his mouth dragging along the side of my throat in a trail of heat and possession.
I am already soaked, already begging in the silent, breathless way that only he knows how to read.
He carries me and drops me onto the edge of the table.
Books slide, a mug tips and rolls off with a dull clatter, and he does not spare it a glance.
His hands flatten me across the surface, fingers splayed over the small of my back, pressing me down until my breasts meet the polished wood and my cheek rests on a stack of notes that scatter beneath my breath.
Then, and only then, does he press himself against me.
