His hands move down, gripping my thighs, and with one rough motion, he shoves me against the wall. I gasp when my back hits the cold surface, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs—only for him to swallow the sound with his mouth as he presses his hard body against mine.
Strong fingers slide up my dress, brushing over my bare thighs, and I know he must feel how tense I am, how much I’m trembling. One hand cups the back of my neck, holding me in place as his lips return to mine—angrier this time, more demanding, like he’s punishing me for wanting him just as badly as he wants me.
Then his other hand drifts higher and higher until his fingers trace over my bare, wet cunt. He jerks back with a low, rough sound rumbling through his chest, his green eyes blazing as they lock onto mine.
“No panties,” he rasps, the hunger in his voice unmistakable. “Of course you’re not wearing panties. You wanted to tempt me, didn’t you? Planned to sit across from me while I ate whatever food you made, knowing you were bare underneath, growing wetter and wetter for me the whole time.”
How does he know? How does he always know?
My cheeks burn hot as he speaks, but my hips buck traitorously against his touch. My clit aches, and I can feel myself getting even wetter under his knowing gaze. His fingers slide through my wetness, spreading it through my folds, and a needy sound escapes me that I can’t suppress.
“You’re soaked for me,” he groans, lips tracing my jaw as he teases me with maddeningly light touches. “Fucking dripping.”
He presses a finger against my clit, circling it slowly, and my head falls back against the wall with a dull thunk. Then he slipsone thick finger inside me, and I curve into him, gasping against his mouth at the sudden fullness.
He adds another finger, curling them just right, thrusting deep, and my moan is swallowed by his kiss as my back arches off the wall. His other hand grips my thigh, keeping me pinned, and I cling to him helplessly, drowning in the pressure and the heat and the maddening rhythm of his fingers.
"I should take you right here,” he growls. "Push that pretty dress up and fuck you against this wall. Make you scream my name so loud everyone in the mansion hears it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?"
Yes.God, yes. Please.
I want to forget everything—my mission, the lies, the fact that he’s my enemy—and just let him fuck me senseless right here. I know it would be incredible. His fingers pump in and out, slow at first, then faster, building a rhythm that makes my vision blur.
My fingers curl into his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave crescents through his shirt as he relentlessly works me with just his fingers, sending me closer and closer to my orgasm, all while whispering filthy promises in my ear—how he’s going to have me on my knees begging for his cock, how he’s going to make me come so many times I’ll forget my own name.
My chest heaves, breaths coming faster and faster, my mouth falling open in one long, drawn-out moan. The dirty promises combined with his wicked fingers make me dizzy, and I can feel the tension coiling inside me, ready to snap and send me flying.
I’m so close, I swear I can taste it, feel it sparking through my nerve endings.
So close, so close, so?—
A deafening crack splits the air and we both freeze.
What—
His body tenses against mine, going from predatory to protective in an instant. I’m still trying to catch my breath when he pulls away, eyes sharp and alert, already reaching for the gun I didn’t even realize he was carrying.
Threat. There’s athreat.
I force myself to focus through the haze of arousal, but my heart’s still racing, and I feel raw—frustrated, my body burning and desperate for the release he just denied me.
Roan takes a step towards the door, weapon drawn and ready, but then lightning flashes through the windows, followed immediately by another deep, rumbling crack of thunder.
Thunder. It was just thunder.
But my heart doesn’t get the message. It keeps racing, pounding like I’ve just sprinted for my life.
He mutters something in Albanian—a curse, probably—and the spell shatters instantly. Like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.
I jerk back a step, breath catching, and in that sudden awful clarity I notice the water bottle and pill container still lying on the floor where I dropped them. I crouch to scoop them up with shaking hands, clutching both to my chest as if that’ll somehow hold me together.
Then I turn away—no words, no glance back. I manage a few steps before my legs start to wobble, and by the time I reach the stairs I’m practically fleeing, heat and shame coiling in my stomach in a nauseating mix.
What the hell am I doing? What the hell was I thinking?
My pulse is still pounding between my legs, and I hate how much I want him, hate that I was seconds away from begging him not to stop.
I slam the door behind me and lean against it, squeezing my thighs together, trying to will away the aching need he left throbbing inside me.
