I kiss her like I’m trying to punish her for every lie.
My hands fist in her hair and I drag her mouth to mine with none of the tenderness I showed her before.
She gasps against my lips, and the sound goes straight to my cock.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I growl against her mouth.
“I know.”
“And it doesn’t mean I forgive you.”
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and what I see there makes my chest constrict. I don’t see any fear in them, and there’s no calculation either. Just heat and hunger and something raw and open and bare.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” she says. “I’m asking you to fuck me.”
Christ.
I shove her back onto the mattress, and then I’m on top of her, pinning her down. She looks so dainty and small beneath me but I know the truth now, she’s anything but.
“Is this what you want?” I drag the T-shirt up her thighs, my hands rough on her skin. “You want to fuck the man who’s holding you captive? The very man you betrayed so callously, the man who could kill you with his bare hands?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No flinching. Just that steady gaze and the rapid rise and fall of her chest. “God help me, yes.”
I yank the shirt over her head and she’s completely naked. Her body is familiar and strange all at once—I know every curve, every freckle of her sun-kissed skin, but I’m seeing her differently now. Not as the woman I loved, but as the weapon she was trained to be.
Both versions make me hard.
“Turn over.”
She complies, and I press her into the mattress face-first, my hand on the back of her neck, holding her down. She could fight—I’ve seen her fight, seen what she’s capable of—but she doesn’t. She just lies there, breathing hard, waiting.
Maybe even trusting.
But this isn’t about trust. This is aboutpower. About control. About taking back something she stole from me.
I strip off my own clothes with one hand, keeping the other on her neck, keeping her pinned. When I’m done, I run my other hand down her back, over her ass, between her cheeks, spreading them.
“You want this?” I position myself at her entrance, feeling how wet she is, how ready, no matter what her answer is. “Say it. You know I need to hear it.”
“I want this.”
“Say please, little killer.”
A pause. Then, she quietly says, “Please.”
I thrust into her in one hard stroke.
She cries out—pain or pleasure or both—and I don’t give her time to adjust. I fuck her hard and fast, punishing her with every stroke, my hand still on her neck, my weight pressing her into the mattress. The heat of her is staggering, the grip of her body pulling me deeper, and even as I try to keep some part of myselfseparate, I can’t. Every thrust drags a groan out of me that sounds like it’s being torn from somewhere else.
And she takes it. She takes all of it. Her hands fist in the sheets and her body arches beneath mine and she makes sounds that are going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
“This is what you wanted?” I lean down, my lips at her ear, my hips never slowing. “To get fucked by the asset? To have me inside you one more time before?—”
“Shut up.” Her voice is ragged. “Just—shut up and?—”
I grab her hair and yank her head back, changing the angle, and shescreams.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” I’m close already—too close, wound too tight, days of tension building to this moment, all this emotion, all this anger. “You don’t get to give orders anymore. You don’t get to?—”
