Most of my life is about serving others. Pleasing my father. Leading my brothers. Walking the knife’s edge between power and corruption.
I’m sick of it. I want to be selfish, to have something that’s just for me.
I want Laurel.
She’s not duty. Not politics.
Not legacy or expectations.
She’smine.
Chapter twenty-five
Laurel
Carrson doesn’t give me a chance to second-guess it. He cuts through the crowd like a knife, barely brushing bodies. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t slow down, just stalks toward the staircase. A man with a singular goal.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my breath coming in short bursts. I’m half-drugged with lust, my blood pounding in my ears. I tighten my grip around his neck, still shocked that he’s carrying me. Even more shocked that I attacked him that way, in front of everyone.
“Somewhere you can scream, and no one will interrupt,” Carrson says withoutlooking down.
Damn.
That shouldnotturn me on as much as it does.
A few flights of stairs later, he takes me to his bedroom,ourbedroom.
He’s kissing me again before the door closes. It’s feral. Messy. All the anger, want, and confusion between us combust in a single breath. He shifts me in his arms until I’m straddling his waist, his hands gripping my ass. His mouth never leaves mine as he turns, carrying me blindly through the room until my spine hits the wall. My legs wrap around his hips. My fingers tangle in his hair. We lose ourselves in each other, tongues, mouths, moans layered and desperate.
God, I had no idea I could feel like this. This good. This insane with desire. This consumed. Carrson kisses me like he owns my mouth. Like he owns me.
He stops.
“What—” I gasp, chasing his lips, still humming with need.
“Bed,” he growls. His voice is low and rough. “I need you in bed. Now.”
He spins so fast it makes me dizzy and strides across the room. His grip loosens, and I fall onto the mattress with a soft thud. Carrson’s on me before I can breathe. He pushes me into the pillows, braced over me on one bent elbow. His other hand slides down, over my stomach, lower, until it settles between my legs. My pelvis arches up instinctively, already aching for him. Instead of giving me what I need, he cups me through my jeans. Just enough pressure to make me whimper.
He shifts, kneeling above me, a knee on each side of my hips. He catches my wrists, gathers them together, and pins them above my head with one hand. His other hand rubs a slow, merciless line over the seam of my jeans. Right between my legs. This time with more pressure. My body jerks beneath him.
It feels so good. Too good.
It’s not enough.
“Don’t tease me,” I whisper.
He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. His breath is hot. “Not teasing, Kitten,” he murmurs. “Training.”
He kisses my neck again, slow and dirty. His mouth drags down to the curve where my throat meets my shoulder, lingering as his fingers work the button of my jeans. He doesn’t rush. Just slides the zipper down, inch by inch, like he’s savoring my torment.
My body wants this, craves it, but some small part of me trembles, aware of how exposed I am, of how fast this is moving.
When his hand finally slips beneath the waistband, I forget that hesitation. I let go and arch into him, my breath hitching, desperate, but his touch is feather-light, delicate. A soft stroke. A gentle graze. Enough to ignite me, but not enough to let me burn.
“Carrson,” I whisper, my hips rolling, chasing friction. “Please.”
A dark chuckle. “Told you you’d beg for me someday.”
