“You want to use it?”
“Do I need to?” Another step to the side, slightly farther from him. Also slightly closer to the door.
“Up to you.”
“Would you stop if I said it?”
“Always.” He blinks back the beast and looks at me, gaze clear and sharp. “In a heartbeat.”
I nod, trusting him in a way I’d never have guessed I could trust anyone. “Then I’m good.”
His chest expands. “I…fuck. If you run right now, I’m gonna chase you down. You want that?”
Out of breath, buzzing so hard I can barely focus, I look him right in the eye and say, “You can try.”
I jump into action, fast. My foot lands wrong. I stumble. Look up. He’s coming.
All I can do is sprint.
Toward the door. My keys are on the counter, but that doesn’t register until it’s too late. The door’s through there. Rightthere. Shit, he’s behind me. I hear him, not rushing like I am, which is creepy and also my body’s on fire with wanting it. I’m so wet—from before, from this—I know I’ve soaked through my underwear. Quick as I can, I feint and race around the big kitchen island, only he’s heading around the other side and every single time I’ve thought of him as a predator comes racing in.
I was right. I wasright.
Hell of a thing, isn’t it, when confirmation comes too late?
Too late, my ass. I’ve wanted this from the start. In a flash I remember the moment he walked into the dark bar and lowered those mirrored glasses. The way his eyes hit mine, like something physical.
A fucking sledgehammer.
I’m halfway around the island when he changes tactics, plants a hand in the middle and vaults right over the damn thing. One giant arm circles my middle, ripping a squeal from my lungs—half scream, half laugh. My feet leave the floor.
Instinct makes me kick, hard.
He grunts, shifts my weight to get a better hold and we’re moving. I flail again which serves only to kick my stupid panties halfway down my legs. Rather than gathering me tighter to him the way I expect, he lets me go, smack in the middle of a long corridor, and pushes me to the floor beneath him. I’m face-down on a long skinny rug. A runner. It’s soft and thick enough to cushion my naked knees as I push up in an attempt to crawl forward.
“Don’t fucking move.”
I ignore him, struggling hard to get away.
Suddenly, he’s yanked the cotton from one of my legs and he’s over me, on top of me, huge and heavy, so hard there’s nothing I could do to get out if I wanted.
Do I want to? It’s hard to tell through this blazing inferno of adrenaline.
My back arches hard, pushing my ass against his erection and everything—every cell inside me—goes molten. It’s not blood flowing through my veins now, it’s lava, thick and hot, searing everything in its path.
“When I tell you to take off your shirt, Katarina,” he mutters, his voice a razor wrapped in velvet. “I want it off.” His weight shifts to one straight arm, hemming me in while his hips dip, staking my bottom half to the floor.
My brain is so confused at the sound of a zipper coming down, but then his hot cock slaps my bottom and I know exactly what’s coming.
I don’t know why I keep fighting him.
Maybe it’s because he’s about to fuck me on his hallway floor with his pants pushed down around his hips and fighting seems right.
Maybe my inner animal doesn’t realize that it’s all game and can’t let go of its mission.
Maybe the fight makes it better.
Oh, it does. I’m ten times more worked up because of the struggle. I want this with a desperation I’m not sure I’ve ever felt.
