We need to hunt them before they hunt us.
"Together," I say firmly. "We end this together."
He nods, jaw set. "Starting tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," I agree. "But tonight?—"
"Tonight, we celebrate surviving." He pulls me close, and I smell his cologne mixed with champagne and something uniquely him. "Tonight, we remember why we fight so hard to stay alive."
He kisses me like he owns me—because he does. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I taste champagne and intent. When we break apart, I'm breathless and aroused and so in love I can barely stand it.
The party continues around us, but I'm done being the club owner, the crusader. Right now, I want to be Jordan. Fitz's wife. His submissive.
His.
"Take me home," I whisper. "I need you."
"Music to my ears, wife."
We slip out through the back entrance, leaving Adam and Chelsea to close down the party. The cold London air hits my flushed skin, sobering and sharp. Fitz keeps me close as we walk the short distance home, his hand possessive on my hip.
Back home, Fitz wastes no time reminding me exactly who I belong to. He strips me slowly, reverently, until I'm wearing nothing but the pearl collar. His hands are gentle but firm, each touch deliberate. The dress pools at my feet. Heels kicked off. Bra discarded. Until there's nothing between us but intention.
"On the bed," he commands. "On your knees. Present yourself to me."
I comply, assuming the position that's become so familiar—back arched, ass high, legs spread. Vulnerable and exposed and exactly where I want to be. The submission settles over me like a blanket, warm and comforting.
This is where I stop thinking, stop planning, stop trying to save the world. Here, I'm only his. Only Jordan. Nothing more required.
His hands start at my ankles, sliding up slowly. Calves. Thighs. The touch is possessive, cataloging every inch of skin. When he reaches the curve of my ass, he pauses. One hand smooths over the flesh there, almost gentle. Then his palm cracks against it, sharp and sudden.
I gasp. The sting spreads, warming my skin.
"Count them," he orders.
"One," I breathe.
Another spank, harder. "Two."
He continues, methodical and controlled, until we reach ten. My skin burns, sensitized and alive. My body trembles with need.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, running his hands over the heated flesh. Then up my spine, tracing the line of my back. Not gentle now—claiming. "My beautiful, brave, infuriating wife."
"Your wife," I agree. "Now and always."
"Damn straight." He positions himself behind me, his cock hard and ready pressing against my entrance. I'm already wet, already desperate for him. The blunt pressure makes me clench. "And it's time I reminded you exactly what that means."
He enters me in one smooth thrust, and I cry out at the fullness of it. Yes. Exactly what I needed. Not gentleness, not careful handling. Him, taking what's his with absolute certainty.
The stretch is intense, overwhelming. He's so deep like this, the angle making me feel every inch of him. My fingers clutch the sheets, needing something to anchor me.
"This is mine," he growls, setting a demanding pace. One hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise. The other tangles in my hair, pulling my head back, forcing my spine to arch deeper. "This body. This heart. This soul. Mine."
"Yours," I gasp. "All yours."
The words unlock something in both of us. He fucks me hard and deep, each thrust deliberate and claiming. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, punctuated by my gasps and his rough breathing. He hits that spot inside that makes white heat flood through me. Primal and raw and exactly what I need.
His hand slides from my hip to between my legs, fingers finding my clit. The dual sensation—him inside me, his fingers circling—makes my thighs shake.
