His jaw flexes, a dangerous glint in his eyes, and my heart stumbles before I force it steady.
A smirk plays across his lips. “If it is, you are doing an excellent job playing along.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Marinov,” I snap. “You might have money, power, and a face that makes women forget their morals, but I’m not one of your groupies. You don’t rattle me.”
His gaze dips to my lips, settling there for far too long. “No? Then why are you trembling?”
His knuckles feather across my jaw, and I attempt to hide the way my body shudders.
I take a step forward instead, toe to toe with the devil. “Maybe I’m just restraining myself. Because if I acted on everyimpulse I had around you, I’d be burying your body in those woods.”
He laughs. “Violent fantasies, detka? Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“Neither.” I tilt up my chin. “Just know that if you keep showing up like this, one day I won’t stop at words.”
His smirk fades just a fraction. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
There’s an unreadable flicker in his eyes before his hand lowers slowly, his fingertip grazing my wrist and dragging upward, mapping the length of my arm. His touch is maddening, and this sensation inside me clenches in protest even as my skin betrays me with a tremble.
“Don’t touch me.” The words leave my mouth with more bite than I feel, but at least I say them.
That’s right, Fiona. Good girl. There’s that backbone.
His gaze never wavers, not for a second, as the pad of his finger finds the curve of my collarbone, slinking over it with a patience that makes my breath catch. My body tightens, heat pooling deep in my belly, my pulse thudding where his skin meets mine.
“But look how much you like it when I do.”
His fingers find the button at my chest, slipping it open with maddening ease. Like he’s done it a hundred times in his fantasies and is finally indulging in the real thing.
I need to stop him, but I just stand here frozen in place—not from fear, but from a dark curiosity.Because despite everything I’ve told myself, part of me needs to know what he’ll do next.
His breath ghosts against my cheek, warm and laced with venom. “Tell me…how wet does your cunt get when you think about me in the shower?”
Fuck…
My ribs cinch so tight, it’s like they might crack.
He knows. Somehow, the sick bastard knows what I did last night. The way I let my fingers slip between my thighs with his name burning through my skull.
“Don’t.” The word escapes in a breathless tremor, shaken loose from the thunder in my chest.
He leans in, lips grazing the shell of my ear. “Don’t what? Don’t stop? Because I don’t plan to.”
Another button slips free, the cream blouse falling open just enough to expose the edge of lace and skin before he presses me back against the bike. The cool metal bites through the thin fabric of my skirt, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his mouth against my throat. Hot, unrelenting, devouring.
His tongue traces the frantic rhythm of my pulse like he set it racing just to savor the wreckage. His teeth graze the skin there—sharp enough to threaten, soft enough to tease—and my knees nearly give beneath the pressure. A needy sound escapes me, and my fingers fist in his hair, tugging hard, desperate to regain control.
But it’s already gone. Because when he growls low in his throat, I feel it. Between my thighs, in my chest, twisting up my spine like a warning shot I’m too far gone to heed.
“Still pretending you don’t want this?” he whispers against my skin, dragging the words down my neck.
My only answer is my breath catching when his hand slips beneath the hem of my skirt. Rough fingertips graze my thigh, each stroke drifting higher, bolder, crueler in its precision.
I know I should stop him, but I can’t do anything except feel. Trapped between disgrace and a hunger so deep, it threatens to swallow me whole.
Because this isn’t just lust anymore. It’s war.
