"Say it, Mila."
The command in his tone sent a thrill through me—not dominance for its own sake, but a need to hear me claim this. To know I was choosing every step.
"I want you,” I whispered, my voice steadier than I felt. "All of you."
A muscle in his jaw ticked, and for a second, I saw the crack in his control—the raw want flickering behind the restraint. Then his mouth was on mine. Slow. Deep.
His lips moved with a precision that made my knees weaken, coaxing mine open, his tongue tracing the seam until I parted for him on a sigh.
I tasted champagne on him, crisp and lingering, mixed with something darker, uniquely his. My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he obliged, one arm wrapping around my waist to draw me flush against him. The hard planes of his body pressed into my softer curves, and I felt him—every inch of muscle earned through whatever hell he'd walked through. It wasn't just strength; it was survival, etched into his frame.
But he didn't grind against me. Didn't rush to strip us bare. Instead, he kissed me like time didn't exist, like this moment was the only one that mattered.
His free hand cupped the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the angle. I moaned softly into his mouth, the sound vibrating between us, and he swallowed it, his grip tightening just enough to send a spark of heat straight to my core.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine, eyes closed for a beat, like he was savoring the taste of me.
"God, Mila," he murmured, voice ragged. "You've been driving me insane."
I smiled against his skin, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Good. Because I've been imagining this since the first day I saw you."
His eyes snapped open, surprise mingling with desire. "Tell me."
It was my turn to surprise him. I moved back slightly, my hands sliding down to the hem of my jacket. Slowly, I shrugged it off, then tossed it to the floor with a soft thud. Underneath, my top clung to me, the fabric thin enough that he could see the outline of my bra, the way my nipples had hardened from his kiss alone.
"I've imagined your hands on me," I said, my voice low and deliberate. “Exactly like this—taking your time, making me ache for more."
He watched me, unmoving, but I saw the way his chest rose and fell faster. Emboldened, I reached for the button on my jeans, popping it open with a flick of my thumb. The zipper rasped down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.
"And I've imagined tasting you," I continued, shimmying the denim down my hips, kicking off my boots and wiggling out of the pants. Now, I wore just my top and panties, the cool air raising goosebumps on my thighs. "Feeling you lose control because of me."
Connor's gaze raked over me, hot and possessive, lingering on the lace edging my underwear, the curve of my hips. But he didn't move. Not yet.
"You're killing me," he said, but there was a smile in his voice, dark and approving.
I closed the distance again, my fingers tugging at his shirt. "Your turn."
He let me undress him, lifting his arms as I pulled the fabric over his head. His chest was a map of scars and muscle—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, abs that flexed under my touch. I traced one scar with my fingertip, a jagged line across his ribs, and he sucked in a breath.
"From a mission?" I asked softly.
He nodded, eyes never leaving mine. "Knife fight. Uzbeckestan."
I leaned in, pressing my lips to the scar, tasting the salt of his skin. He groaned low in his throat, his hands coming to my waist, holding me there. I kissed lower, over his pecs, down to the V of muscle leading into his pants. My hands worked his belt open, the leather whispering through the loops.
When I palmed him through his boxers, he was hard and thick, straining against the fabric. I squeezed gently, and his hips jerked forward, a curse escaping his lips.
"Mila—"
I looked up at him, my hand still moving in slow strokes. "I want to see you. All of you."
He didn't argue. He moved back, shedding his pants and boxers in one fluid motion. And there he was—naked, unapologetic, magnificent.
His cock stood proud, veined and heavy, the tip already glistening. I'd been with men before, experienced enough to know what I liked, but this ... this was different. The sight of him made my mouth water, my core clench with need.
I'd never wanted anyone like this. Never felt this pull, this obsession.
"You're beautiful," I whispered, meaning it. Not just his body, but the way he held himself, vulnerable yet unbreakable.
