He doesn’t strike.
He doesn’t leave.
Instead, he closes the distance.
I expect a punch, a shove, maybe even a stab.
What I don’t expect is the way his hand knots in the front of my shirt, the way he yanks me forward and crashes his mouth to mine.
It’s brutal. Messy. All teeth and heat andhate.
I grab his waist, slam him back into the wall, and kiss him harder. He groans into it, half-defiance, half-surrender. My hands find his wrists and pin them above his head, and that’s when he gasps.
I pause, lips brushing his. “You like that?”
His eyes blaze. He doesn’t answer.
I press my knee between his thighs.
“Say it.”
“Go to hell,” he growls, but his hips roll into mine.
So that’s how he wants to play it.
I grip his wrists tighter, slide my other hand up his shirt, feel the tremble in his stomach as I drag my palm across it.
He’s burning.
He wants this just as badly as I want to unravel him.
Still pinning him to the wall, I nip at his jaw, trail my mouth down the column of his throat.
“Still think you’re in control?” I murmur.
He huffs a breath, biting down on whatever noise threatens to escape. I feel it in his body. The restraint, the tension, theneed.
Julian’s breath fans hot against my throat, and for a second, I think he might crack. That he’ll give in completely, let me strip him down to nerves and ruin.
But then he yanks one wrist free, twists with surprising strength, and shoves me.
My back slams into the wall, but before I can retaliate, he’s already there, pressing into me, one hand at my chest, the other gripping my jaw.
“I am now,” he says, voice low, eyes dark.
Oh,really?
I arch a brow, lips twitching despite myself. “You think this is control?”
“I think you talk too much,” he growls, stepping closer until our hips are flush. His palm slides from my chest to my throat like a warning. A threat.
Cute.
He leans in, his lips grazing the corner of my mouth. “You like control, don’t you?”
I hum, eyes flicking lazily over his face. “Andyoulike pretending you have it.”
His jaw ticks.
