Her mouth parted. Silence pooled between them, heavy and charged. His lion prowled, slow and sure, answering the restless hum he’d felt the second he stepped into Hollow Oak again. Everything in him leaned toward her, toward the woman who started fights with a look and ended them with a single word.
“Say it,” he murmured. “Tell me not to.”
She lifted her chin. “You don’t give orders here.”
“Not trying to.” He eased closer, one step, then another, until her body heat touched his. “I’m asking.”
Her breath came quicker, the fine muscle at her jaw tight. “You want honesty, lion?” Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “I wanted to rip his throat out. I wanted to bite you for stopping me. I want?—”
“What?” His voice roughened. He could feel the shape of her, all that small lethal grace, the lioness right there under the skin.
“I want to forget him,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I want something else to live in my head.”
His restraint frayed. “Take it.”
She moved first. Fingers hooked his shirt and hauled him down, mouth crashing into his like a challenge. It was messy and hot, teeth clicking, breath stolen, anger kissing anger until it wasn’t anger anymore. He caught her waist, lifted, pressed her back into the wall, wood thudding. She made a sound that went straight through him, not pretty, not polite, and he answered with a low growl he didn’t try to hide.
“Dante,” she said against his mouth, warning and need in the same breath.
“Say stop and I stop,” he said, words scraping his throat. “Otherwise I’m going to give you exactly what you’re asking for.”
Her fingers speared his hair and tightened. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He took her at that. He kissed her the way he’d wanted to for years, the way he’d dreamed in lonely beds, all heat and claim and reverence rolled into one. She kissed back like she was trying to fight and win and fall and land on her feet all at once. The wall took her nails as she arched; he felt claw tips bite wood near his ear. Good. Let the place remember this.
He slid his hands under her shirt, palms meeting hot skin, the elegant lines of her back, the flex of muscle as she moved. She was lithe and lethal, and she was shaking a little now, not with fear, with restraint. He knew the feeling. His own control sat on a knife edge.
“Clothes,” she said, already pulling his shirt up. “Off.”
He stripped it fast, the tavern air cool on his skin. Her gaze dragged over him, and he felt the heat of it everywhere on the broad chest, the scars, the ink over his ribs, the strength earned by work and fights he’d won and lost. “Still arrogant,” she said, but her hands flattened on his chest like she approved of every inch.
“You still gorgeous,” he said, voice gone quiet with truth.
She snorted, then tugged her sweater over her head, dark bra under, skin the color of toasted sugar, the soft slope of her shoulder begging for teeth. He bent and put his mouth there, open and slow. She sucked in a breath and pressed closer.
“Not gentle,” she said into his hair.
“Got it.” He bit. Not to mark, not yet, but enough to make her gasp and clutch him harder. Her lioness flashed hot against him. His answered, pleased. They kissed again, deeper, hungrier,while his hands found the closure of her jeans. She shoved at his belt like it insulted her.
“Off,” she demanded.
“Bossy,” he said, grinning against her mouth.
“Shut up,” she said, smiling back, and he could have drowned in that small curve of her lips. He shucked his belt and jeans and boxers in quick motions. His cock sprang free, hard and heavy, evidence of exactly how far gone he was. Her eyes flicked down and went darker.
“Yeah,” he said, hand braced by her head. “All for you.”
She slid her palm along his length, slow, testing, possessive. He groaned, head thunking softly against the wall, whole body pushing into her touch without shame. “You talk big,” she said, stroking once more, firmer. “You always did.”
“I always backed it up.” He caught her wrist, brought her fingers to his mouth, kissed the tips, then set them on his chest. “Up.” He gathered her thighs and lifted. She wrapped around him instinctively, strong legs clamping his hips, heels locking at his back. Her short hair brushed his cheek; her breath warmed his ear.
“You’re going to break a chair,” she said, voice rough with pleasure.
“Good thing this is a wall,” he said, and pinned her more securely, one arm a steel bar under her, the other hand sliding into her pants, under the edge of silk. He found slick heat and couldn’t hold back the sound that tore out of him. “Fuck, Maeve.”
“Don’t get sentimental,” she said, but her head tipped back when he stroked her, throat bared. He took advantage, mouth on the long line there, tongue and teeth, hand working between her legs. Her pussy was hot and wet around his fingers, greedy, pulsing. He circled her clit with the pad of his thumb, slow, then faster when she swore softly and arched into his hand.
“Tell me,” he said against her skin. “Tell me what you want.”
