I pull out and thrust hard, claiming her body. I clasp her hips, moan as she cries out my name, muffled into the lounge. “That’s it, Pumpkin. Enjoy me.”
“Yes…” Her cries spur me on, and I lunge into her again.
She’s so wet, ready, needy. I love it. Every moment of it. My balls ache, my stomach is a knot of need, of wants and desires. She makes me feel so much more than anyone before. Too much. Enough that I can see how badly this can destroy me if she decides I’m not worth the risk.
I cannot get enough of her.
“Tell me you’re mine. That you’ll not allow anything to come between us.”
She moans, a sound that’s tinged with want and frustration. “I can’t,” she says, still denying me what I want. Still refusing to believe what I say is true. Still holding herself apart from me, as if she might bolt at any moment.
I punish her by pulling out. I sit, hard as rock against her ass, and reach around and roll my fingers against her clit. She moans, squirms against my hand. “Tell me, Dallen. Say you’llkeep seeing me, no matter what anyone else says. We’re good together.” I slip my fingers between her slick folds, dipping them into her moist heat before rolling them over her button.
“Stephen, stop teasing. I can’t take it.”
She presses her ass against my cock, and I undulate against her. I want to come. I want her to agree to what I’m ordering her to do. She’s so frustratingly independent, a trait I’m finding a fucking turn-on and dangerous, because independence means she can choose to walk away—from me, from my name, from everything I am.
“Tell me you’ll drop the Romeros as clients.”
She moans, and I thrust into her once more, taking her, owning her. She pushes back against me, sitting up and facing forward on my lap. I clasp one of her tits, teasing her pebbled nipple as I grind my fingers around her clit. She tightens about my cock, the tremors of her forthcoming release dragging me into joining her.
The Romeros shouldn’t be anywhere near her. They don’t touch what’s mine. They don’t circle something I care about without consequences.
“You like me fucking owning you. Admit it.”
“I love this,” she stubbornly says. “But you’ll never own me, Stephen.”
I pinch her clit before rolling it under the pads of my fingers. She lets out a squeal of pain mixed with pleasure before she comes. Her body convulses around my cock, and I’m powerless to stop my release.
I thrust into her, wanting my seed deep, to claim. Not that I think anything will come of it. She’s a sensible woman. She is more than protected, even if I’m not.
“Stephen,” she screams, her head pressing against my shoulder. I kiss her neck, relishing the feel of our orgasm rippingthrough us both. Her father will hate this. The Romeros will use it. And still, I can’t make myself stop.
“Dallen,” I groan. The urge to never let her go, to keep her here with me, safe and not around those who will keep us apart, is overwhelming. But there isn’t a war I haven’t yet won, and I always get what I want. The Moretti’s don’t lose.
And I won’t lose Dallen.
SIXTEEN
DALLEN
By Monday morning,I’m convincing myself that the charity auction is a fever dream and my night in Stephen’s arms afterward as well—too much socializing, too much champagne, too much Stephen. If I focus hard enough on my work, maybe I can shrink the memory of his hands on my body, the way he kneels in front of me in the hallway, the way I almost—almost—let myself forget who he is when I go back to his apartment.
Almost cave and give in to what he wants me to do.
Be owned by him?
Part of me wants to be kept, to be owned by him, but not in the way he wants. I want love, companionship, trust, and loyalty. I don't want to be told what I can and can't do, and I'll never settle for scraps. I deserve so much more than that, and I don't care how much bad blood runs between him and the Romeros, that has nothing to do with me.
A knock sounds on my door, and I look up expecting to see my assistant. Instead, it’s my father. He steps through the doorway of my office, fills the frame like a storm cloud—broad-shouldered, imposing, wearing the expression he saves for briefing homicide detectives. My stomach drops.
“Dad?” I stand too quickly. “Is everything okay?”
“We need to talk,” he says.
That tone. My pulse stutters. I sit down, trying not to imagine the worst. “Is Mom okay?” I ask.
“She’s fine, this call isn’t about her.” He doesn’t sit, he plants his hands on the back of the chair opposite my desk, head lowered, gathering himself. This is bad. I brace myself for whatever it is he’s about to say.
