Something in his eyes changes. The way he’s looking at me.
I know that look.
I take a tiny step back.
"Hannah—"
"No." I press my hands against his chest, intending to push him away, but the moment I touch him, everything changes.
The careful control we've both been maintaining for two weeks shatters like glass.
His mouth crashes down on mine. I kiss him back with equal ferocity. All the anger and frustration and unwanted desire I've been suppressing explodes into this moment, this connection that should be wrong but feels like the only honest thing in my life.
My hands twist into the fabric of his shirt.
"This is insane," I gasp against his lips.
"Yes, it is."
But neither of us stops. His hands tangle in my hair, mine claw at his shirt, and we're moving backward until my legs hit something solid—a chair, maybe, or a side table. I don't care.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes against my throat.
I should. I should tell him to stop, should remember that he's holding me prisoner, should think about the baby growing inside me and all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Instead, I pull his shirt open, buttons scattering across the expensive carpet.
This is anger and need wrapped up in irrational desire.
He lifts me onto the desk, scattering papers and books, his mouth never leaving mine. When his hands find the hem of my blouse, I help him remove it, past caring about propriety or consequences or anything beyond the fire building between us.
"Hannah," he says, and there's something broken in his voice, something that sounds almost like an apology.
"Don't," I whisper. "Don't think. Just feel."
So he does. We both do.
His hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, tangling in my hair as he pulls me closer. I can taste the desperation on his lips. It’s the same wild need that's been building in me for weeks. This is wrong in every possible way, but I can't bring myself to care.
"You're going to be the death of me," he murmurs against my throat, his accent thicker with desire.
"Good," I breathe, arching into him as his mouth finds that spot just below my ear that makes me lose all rational thought.
His hands quickly undo the skinny jeans I’m wearing. I work at his belt with shaking fingers, frustrated by my own clumsiness. Nothing has ever felt this desperate, this necessary.
I lift my weight off the desk while he peels my jeans and panties down my legs. I kick off my shoes and I’m free. Exposed to him in front of the windows that overlook the backyard. Exposed to the guards that could very easily see if they tried.
When he touches me, I cry out, my head falling back as pleasure shoots through me like electricity. He swallows the sound with his mouth, his fingers moving with practiced skill that makes my vision blur.
"I need you," I gasp, the words torn from somewhere deep inside me. "Please, I need?—"
"I know what you need," he says, positioning himself between my thighs. "I know exactly what you need."
And he does. When he enters me, it's with a possession that steals my breath. Every thrust is deliberate, calculated to drive me higher. He’s trying to make me forget everything except this moment.
Good.
He’s my salvation and damnation.
