Sweat slides down his firm and solid body. He growls with each punch, his muscles tensing, each one outlined like marble.
“Damian.”
“Hmm?” he grunts without looking up.
“What are you going to do to Rico?”
He laughs darkly, then hits the bag so hard I’m surprised his fist doesn’t break. “You don’t want to know.”
I walk up to him. Heat radiates from his shirtless body. A small twinge of anxiety tugs at me, out of place, when I think about being shirtless… when I think about my own scar. I was in an accident as a kid, which scarred my back and gave me an unhealthy dose of self-consciousness.
I push it away. It doesn’t matter.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know,” I snap.
He turns to me, steps close, his scent whirling around me.
“Fine, Celine. I’ll tell you. I’m going to torture the motherfucker until he tells me what he knows. About the attack. About… other important things.”
“Then what?” I whisper.
Another brutal laugh. “What do you think?”
“Scared to say it?” I challenge, thinking maybe that will hide my fear.
“I’m going to put a bullet in his head.” Another step, and he’s so close I could press my hand against his sweaty chest, could feel the firmness of his huge and muscular body.
Why am I even thinking about that now?
My scrubs cling closely to me, tugging at my inner thighs, at my bra, my nipples aching, my core tingling. It’s all so out of placeand wrong, yet I can’t seem to stop. Damian makes the very idea of control a foreign concept.
“And you’ve done it before,” I murmur.
“Killed people? Yes, I fucking have. They call me the Beast, Celine. I’ve been called the Beast for years. They whisper my name like I’m the bogeyman, like if they say it too loud, I’ll appear and wreck them.”
Another step.
I push against his chest. Do I really mean to push him away, or is that just an excuse to touch him?
My fingernails bend against his unyielding body. He groans, reaches up, and grips my wrist. I think he’s going to swipe my hand away, but he just holds it there, staring at me, glaring. There’s something possessive and very, very wrong in his gaze.
But whatever it is, I want more of it.
“What are we doing?” I whisper, my body ablaze, my sex almost hurting as my underwear rubs against me.
“I don’t have a fucking clue,” he growls.
His lips crash against mine. His body presses against mine.
Suddenly, we’re against the wall, my hands splayed over the broad muscles of his back. He presses against my hips with one hand. The other squeezes my thigh.
I let out a moan, breaking the kiss. Our eyes are inches apart. He gazes deeply into me, reading me, knowing I want this even if I shouldn’t.
His lip twitches into a smile that tells me he knows I’m trying to fight, knows I’m failing, and he’s feeling it too. The next time we kiss, defeat flows through me.
My legs weaken, but I can’t fall because his hands are glued to my body, one squeezing my hip as if that’s where it belongs, the other pressing firmly against my thigh, gliding higher, getting closer to my wetness.
Stop, we can’t do this.
