As soon as I meet his gaze, he thrusts into me, burying himself so deep, I scream, throwing my head back with pleasure.
“Lukin,” I gasp. “You’re so big.”
“You’re going to take me.” He bites my ear softly. We’re still dressed and our desperation is obvious in our hollow gasps, but this is hotter than being naked. I love it.
“Eyes on me,” he growls, and I meet his gaze again. There’s a passion there that burns hotter than fire. “We have all night,” he says. “I’m going to take you and take you until your brain registers no other man but me. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
I won’t have it any other way.
Chapter Twelve - Lukin
I wake before she does, lying perfectly still, my eyes half open, watching the soft light of dawn creep across the room in faint lines. The glow of it hits the floor, stretching slowly toward the bed, and I watch the light play across Zoe’s skin, her body still tangled in the sheets beside me.
She’s beautiful like this. Soft. Vulnerable. It’s not the same as the fire she carries in her when she’s awake, when she’s fighting me, when she’s pulling away, or when she’s writhing beneath me like she did last night, begging me to give her the pleasure I generously gave.
Right now, she looks calm, almost peaceful, her breath even, her skin flushed from the night.
But there’s something wrong in the stillness. Something that doesn’t sit right with me. It should feel like control—like I’ve gotten exactly what I wanted. I’ve claimed her, marked her in every way possible. She’s mine.
But the tight coil in my chest doesn’t loosen. It only tightens.
She’ll leave. She always does. Every time. Without fail.
She’s been rejecting me at every turn, fighting me at every moment, and I can feel it in the way she moves. She wants me, but she’s scared of what it means.
I know this. I’ve seen it in every glance, every touch, every hesitation.
Still, part of me waits, just to see what she’ll do this time.
Zoe finally stirs beside me, a soft sound escaping her lips as she wakes. I stay still, pretending to be asleep, my eyes barely open, watching her through the sliver of vision I allow myself.I want to see what she does. I want to see if she’ll pull away, if she’ll leave without a word like I know she would.
She turns to look at me, her gaze flickering over my face, her eyes still heavy with sleep. I don’t move, don’t make a sound. I stay perfectly still, waiting for her to make her move.
She studies me for a moment, her breath catching as she examines my features, probably wondering if I’m awake, if I’m faking sleep.
Her gaze softens just a little, and for a brief second, I feel something like relief. She’s not running. Not yet.
But the relief is only temporary.
I don’t move as Zoe slips out of bed. The sheets rustle softly as she pulls herself from the warmth of the bed, and I keep my eyes on her, not saying a word.
She’s careful as she stands, wrapping the sheet around herself like armor, her movements slow and deliberate. The way she holds it so tightly against her body tells me everything I need to know. She’s trying to protect herself from me, from what happened between us.
I watch her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for her clothes. She’s doing everything she can to avoid looking at me, avoiding whatever this is between us. I can sense the conflict in her—the fear and the desire, the walls she’s desperately trying to rebuild after everything that’s happened.
She’s not ready for this. She never was. But I know she’s not done with me. Not yet.
I stay still, watching her pull her clothes on, my eyes tracing every movement, every subtle shift in her body. She’s pretending like she’s unaffected, like I didn’t just make her feel things she wasn’t prepared for. But I can see it—the way sheflinches when her fingers touch the fabric, the way her breath quickens, like she’s trying to shake off what’s still inside her.
When she walks into the living room, I can hear her footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor, and that’s when I move. I push myself up, my muscles tense from the stillness, and follow her into the other room.
I don’t hurry. I don’t need to. I’m not chasing her. Not yet. I’m letting her make the first move. But she’s already made it, hasn’t she? She’s leaving. She’s fucking leaving.
She’s almost at the door when I step into the living room.
The sight of her, moving so deliberately, trying to keep her distance, stirs something inside me that I can’t quite control. I don’t speak. I just watch her, my eyes fixed on her every movement, every gesture.
