“That was better than I imagined,” Ghost murmurs against my mouth.
I give him a stern look. “This can never happen again.”
“Fuck. That.”
Ghost kisses me again.
The fire inside me flares, burning hotter, brighter, until the only thing I can feel is him. Until the only thing I want is him.
This man kisses like he kills: deliberately, skillfully, and without remorse.
My hands, which should be pushing him away, grab the fabric of his shirt. Not fighting. Holding. A desperate, primal contradiction that terrifies me more than his touch.
His grip on my throat tightens ever so slightly, just enough to send a thrill through me. He nips at my lower lip, the sting of pain quickly replaced by a rush of pleasure.
The contact is electric, sending a surge of adrenaline through me. I gasp, my eyes flying open. He uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth.
I’m powerless to stop him.
My thoughts fragment. Professional distance. Ethical boundaries. Years of training that demand clinical detachment. All of it crumbles against the brutal intimacy of his mouth.
“Kiss me back, Geneva.”
His command is a whisper against my lips, a sensual demand that has me wanting to obey. He slowly traces the seam of my lips with his tongue. Now coaxing instead of taking.
And I surrender.
It’s a sigh. The softening of my body. The tightening of my grip on him.
I’ve studied Ghost for months. Analyzed every file, every report. I know the body pressed against me is a weapon. Trained. Lethal. Scarred. Each ridge and plane a testament to violence. I should be repulsed, but I’m enraptured.
Ghost releases his grip on my neck to place his palms against the wall on either side of my head, caging me in. All the while, he never stops his sensual assault on my mouth, even as the chain links from his cuffs press against my throat. Those same chains were just used to take a life, but now they’re on my skin, breathing life into me.
No longer a threat, but a thirst for more.
I kiss him back.
His touch changes at my response. It’s not just conquering, but something more unhinged. More desperate.
I whisper his name, overwhelmed by him. Ghost swallowsthe tiny sound, pulling my breath into his body. A tremor runs through him, followed by a groan of pure ecstasy that has me shaking as well.
His lips curl, but it’s not quite a smile. It’s something darker and devious. Something that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
To us.
He pulls back, allowing me to breathe as he trails lips along my jaw. Teeth scrape against my pulse point. Not quite biting. Not quite breaking skin. But promising that he could. That he might.
I try to stifle a moan, but I’m unsuccessful. It flows from my throat, liquid and sultry, like the dampness flowing from my pussy. Ghost freezes, his lips on my throat, his teeth testing my skin. He inhales deep and my face blooms with the heat of my embarrassment.
“I smell magnolia and pussy,” he murmurs.
Something shifts. Breaks. His façade shattering.
No more calculated precision.
No more meticulous control.
Just raw need.
