I tighten my grip. “Liar.”
He breathes out, all the tension deflating, and finally meets my eyes. There’s a storm in them, but it’s not the old violence. It’s hope, raw and naked.
I pull him toward me, close enough that I can see the cut on his cheek from yesterday’s sparring session with Julian. I trace it with my finger, light as air.
“I’m not saying yes,” I say, “but I’m not saying no, either.”
He laughs, the sound rough and wild. “That’s good enough for me.”
I jump off the counter, the box still in my hand, and step into his arms. He wraps me up, holds me so tight I can barely breathe. Itfeels like being made whole after a lifetime of being carved into pieces.
We stay there, swaying in the small space between the table and the door, until the need to touch, to taste, to claim becomes too much and he starts walking me backwards, down the hall.
The bedroom is dark but not cold. We move through the doorway in a tangle of limbs, laughter, and old ache, and when Bam sets me on the bed, he does it like he’s afraid I’ll break.
I want to tell him I’m not fragile. I want to bite, to fight, to show him that all the old rules are gone. But when he leans over me, the hunger in his eyes is pure and open worship.
He strips his shirt with one hand. The scars catch the low light, pale lines crisscrossing his chest and arms. They mingle with his tattoos, his latest standing bright against his skin.
A black Dahlia.
He kneels over me, hands at my thighs, and pulls me to the edge of the mattress. The shirt rides up, exposing my hips and the small bruises from last night’s rougher play. He sees them, traces a thumb over the darkest bloom, and I shudder.
“You okay?”
I nod. “Better than okay.”
He peels the shirt up, slow, letting his knuckles brush over every rib, every shiver of skin. When it’s off, he lets it fall, his gaze taking in all of me. I should feel exposed, but all I feel is wanted.
He leans down, presses his mouth to my knee, then trails kisses up the inside of my thigh. His beard scratches, soft and dangerous, and I dig my fingers into the sheets to anchor myself.
He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, worshipping every inch of me with lips and tongue and the careful bite of his teeth. When he finally reaches my core, he licks a slow stripe, then pulls back, watching me squirm.
“Say you want it,” he whispers.
The words slide into me, hot and humiliating. I arch, trying to close the gap. “I want it,” I hiss. “Please.”
He grins, then dives in. His mouth is brutal, greedy, and when he sinks two fingers inside me I almost lose my mind. He curls them just right, finding the spot that makes me tremble, and keeps going until I’m begging, clawing at his shoulders, my whole world gone white.
He only stops when I go limp, boneless and ruined.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawls up over me, pinning me with his weight. He slides his cock between my thighs, slick and hot, but doesn’t push in yet.
He nuzzles my ear. “You’re mine, Dahlia. With or without the damn ring.”
I want to fight, to claw his face, but I want him more. “I’m yours,” I whisper.
He laughs, a sound full of pride. “Good girl.”
When he finally enters me, it’s slow, deliberate. He fills me completely, every inch a reminder of how easy it would be for him to break me. Instead, he holds still, waiting for me to adjust, to accept him fully.
I wrap my legs around his waist and roll my hips, urging him deeper. He takes the cue, thrusting slow at first, then harder. Every stroke is a promise, every grunt a confession. He drops his forehead to mine, sweat slicking our skin, and whispers my name like a prayer.
I lose track of time, of space. All I know is the way he moves inside me, the way he never looks away, even when I come apart under him. He chases my climax with his own, holding out until I shatter, then pounding into me with a violence that’s almost tender.
He comes with a growl, biting down on my shoulder to keep from screaming.
When it’s over, we collapse together, a mess of limbs and breath and bruises. He rolls to his side, pulling me with him, spooningmy back to his chest. His hands roam, tracing lazy circles on my stomach, my hip, the swell of my breast.
