"Viviana—"
"Touch me." It's a challenge, an invitation.
Something in his expression snaps. He crosses the room in two quick strides, backing me against the wall, his hands braced on either side of my head. His eyes are burning, filled with a tormented hunger that mirrors my own.
"You have no idea what you're asking for," he says, his voice thick with restraint. "You have no idea of the kind of man I am. I’m a dangerous man and I’m not good for you.”
"Show me." I cling to his gaze, demanding his truth.
He stares at me, and I see the war playing out behind his eyes. Loyalty against an undeniable, dangerous connection.
Desire wins..
His mouth crashes down on mine, demanding and nothing like the gentle first kiss I might have imagined. Thisis pure hunger, pure need. I kiss him back just as desperately because I've been wanting this since that morning in the gym.
His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, and I make a sound that's half whimper, half moan. I've been kissed before, but never like this. Never by someone who kisses like he's taking what he wants instead of asking for permission, and yet, somehow, giving me exactly what I crave.
"Fuck," he murmurs against my lips. "This is a bad idea."
"I don't care." I really don't. The world outside, the danger, the rules, they all blur.
"You should care. We both should care. This is too fucking dangerous."
"But we don't."
"No," he agrees, and then he's kissing me again. Harder this time, more demanding, his hands roaming over my body like he's been denied this for too long, like he needs to feel every inch of me to prove I'm real.
I arch against him, desperate for more contact, more pressure, more everything. My hands fist in his suit jacket, and I can feel the taut muscle beneath the expensive fabric, can feel the way his heart is pounding against his ribs.
"This doesn't mean anything," he mutters against my throat, but his mouth is trailing down my neck, finding spots that make me gasp and writhe in his arms. His words are a desperate attempt at denial, for both of us.
"I know," I whisper, but a part of me hopes he's wrong.
"Good." His hands slide down to my waist, then lower, cupping my ass and lifting me until my legs wrap around his waist. "Because I'm not good for you, princess. I'm not the kind of man your daddy wants you with."
"I don't care what my daddy wants."
"You will. When this is over, when you go back to your life, you'll remember that I'm the enemy."
"Are you trying to talk me out of this?" My fingers trace the tense line of his jaw.
"I'm trying to make sure you understand what this is."
"I want you anyway." The truth of it is a raw, burning thing.
He groans, a sound that's pure frustration and desire, and then he's carrying me toward the stairs, still kissing me, still holding me like I weigh nothing.
"This is insane," he mutters. “Your father would kill me if he knew what I was about to do to you."
"He's not here."
We make it to the top of the stairs, and he heads toward what I assume is his bedroom. I've never been in there before, it felt too intimate, too much like crossing a line we weren't ready to cross.
But we're crossing it now.
The bedroom is all dark wood and masculine furniture, with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the forest. He sets me down beside the massive bed, and suddenly the reality of what we're about to do hits me.
I'm about to have sex with Damon Lombardi. The enemy. The man who's been holding me captive for a week.
