The words hang there, heavy and electric. She leans into my touch, almost involuntarily. “I’m not going to make this easy for you,” she murmurs, voice shaking. “I’ll make you pay for every minute you think you own me.”
I smile, real and dangerous, and pull her closer. “Good. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
There are no more walls between us. No audience, no deal, no more performances. Just us—two creatures made for war and want, circling the fire they started together.
As I hold her, as she lets herself tremble and rage in my arms, I realize this is the only victory that ever mattered.
I watch her circle the edge of the room, hurricane-swift and all wound up, eyes burning like she’d rather break glass than look at me. Her words are flint, sharp enough to draw blood.
“You think you win because the contract says so? You think one ceremony erases everything?” She shakes off the pins, the silk, the last fragile armor of the day. “You want power? Congratulations. You’ve got it. What now, Leon? What’s left for either of us but damage?”
I let the hurt land. I let her see how it stings. “You really think I care about the ledger now?” My voice is rough, lower than I mean it to be. “All the deals, all the politics—none of it ever mattered, not next to you. Not once I saw you could fight me, break me, burn me to the ground and still come back swinging.”
She tosses her veil—white silk, red flowers—onto the bed, jaw set in that dangerous way that makes my hands itch to touch her.
“You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to want me and cage me at the same time.”
I cross the room before I’ve made the decision, body and will finally in sync. “You think I’m not caged too?” I don’t let her turn away. My hand finds her jaw, cradling it—not hard, not rough, but inescapable. “You think I haven’t paid for every choice I made to get here?”
She’s trembling. Fury, adrenaline, defiance. I can taste it on her breath. The air between us crackles.
“You can’t have all of me, Leon. Not just because you’re strong enough, or stubborn enough. I don’t give in. Not for anyone.”
The challenge is pure, bright, perfect. I answer it by leaning in—not as a conqueror, not as a captor, but as a man who’s starving for the one person who never yielded. My mouth finds hers, hot and fierce.
She tastes like champagne, like stubbornness and hope and everything I’ve craved since the day we met.
Her hands come up to my chest—pushing, resisting—but I don’t retreat. I coax, I press, I take my time. I tilt her head, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, holding her steady as I claim her mouth with slow, deliberate intent. Every line of her body shudders against mine. I kiss her until her resistance melts into a gasp, until the fight becomes friction, until I feel her open for me, her anger folding into something darker, deeper, messier.
My hands grip her plush hips, pull her so tightly against me that I feel every ounce of her curves.
She breaks first, her fingers knotting in my lapel, dragging me closer even as she glares at me. “Don’t you dare make this gentle,” she snaps. “I want you to feel it.”
I laugh, throat raw. “I don’t know how to be gentle with you.” My hands slip lower, palms spanning her waist, anchoring her to the world. “You want real? Let’s see how much of me you can take.”
We crash together, all teeth and hands and the furious, breathless sound of silk tearing. Buttons scatter.
Her dress comes undone in frantic, scraping motions—no finesse, just necessity, need, the overwhelming urgency to touch, to be touched, to strip away the last secrets. I let my suit jacket fall, careless of where it lands. Her nails score down my shirt, scraping skin, wild and hungry.
We stagger backward, mouths never parting, until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She goes down with me on top of her, legs tangling, her breath hot against my ear.
“You want to win?” she hisses, arching up, grinding against the hard line of my thigh. “You’re not the only one who knows how to take.”
I let her claw at me, let her shove my shirt off my shoulders, teeth catching at my collarbone, her anger breaking down into something needier, rougher. I strip the dress from her, exposing skin that’s already flushed, fever-bright.
My mouth finds her throat, her shoulder, the delicate line between jaw and pulse. I bite, I soothe, I taste the salt of her skin. She moans—low and shocked, as if she can’t believe the noise comes from her.
“Look at me,” I demand, voice tight. She tries to look away, but I catch her chin, force her eyes to mine. “If you want me to stop, tell me now. I won’t ask again.”
She bares her teeth, something wild in her smile. “If you stop, I’ll kill you.”
I grin back. “Good.”
I take my time, exploring every inch of her—mapping scars and softness, learning what makes her shiver and squirm and arch her back. I press kisses down her sternum, over her ribs, along her stomach. My hands knead her hips, fingers spreading her thighs with the same authority I use in the boardroom.
Here, she’s the one who tests the boundaries. She tugs my hair, drags my mouth where she wants it, dares me to hold her down.
I slide her panties off, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. Her legs fall open, and I kneel between them, breath coming ragged. I run my hands up her thighs, thumbs tracing the line where muscle meets silk, and then I taste her—tongue flat, mouth hungry, savoring every gasp, every curse, every trembling demand.
