Not fighting back.
Fightingcloser.
Her arms knot around my neck, and her hands fist in my shirt. She tastes like fear and surrender and sweetness, a flavor I could get addicted to fast.
I drive her into the wall. My body pins hers, one hand curled around her throat while the other grips her thigh and hikes it up to wrap around my hip. I tug her so tightly that the heat between us could set the building on fire.
Black silk rides up around her waist, cool and slippery under my fingers.
Lavender tickles my nose and coats my tongue.
She whimpers against my mouth like a needy animal.
The sound vibrates all the way through me, lighting up nerves I thought long dead.
I break away and drag my teeth down her jaw, along the frantic beat at her throat. She tips her head back, offering up the supple skin beneath her chin, her breath coming in ragged bursts.
This isn’t cold or professional or using sex as a weapon.
This is a confession, a raw, possessive answer to her one-word invocation.
She manifested me.
Now she’s mine.
Ever since I closed that laptop, since the gleam in her eyes on stage, since she lied to save me instead of herself, she’s been mine.
Knowing that—giving myself permission to admit the truth—triggers a rush of adrenaline-spiked lust through my entire body, charging my blood with little sparks.
I want to show her exactly what she does to me.
My hands map the shape of her under silk, finding every place that inspires her to shiver, arch, and beg for more. I could break her so easily.
But I don’t. Instead, I worship.
I plant my mouth on her pulse, her clavicle, the hollow where her life pounds against my lips. She’s shaking, not from fear but with desire, clutching my shoulders, my arms, and holding on like I’m the only real thing in the world. With her back pressed against the wall, she climbs my body.
More.
The word explodes behind my eyes. More of her shuddering and this animalistic surrender. I don’t just want her body. I want her head, her secrets, all the raw places she hides from the world. Her truths torn free, offered up to me and me alone.
And the fucked-up part?
She wants me right back. Wants the shark, the darkness. Not despite of what I am, but because of it. I can taste her craving in every moan.
When Jordan gasps my name, I know I won’t come back from this.
I’ve marked my territory.
She’s marked hers.
I haul her up, her legs locked around my waist, her weight nothing in my arms. With the bed against my shins, I lower her back and follow her down. The black dress lies bunched and useless around her, a dark puddle on pale sheets. She claws at my shirt, popping buttons and breathing fast.
“Kirill.” I’ve heard her say my name a dozen ways, but never like this. Like the only word left in the world.
I brace myself over her, soaking her in with my knee shoved between hers and my hands caging her head. Her chest heaves as a flush blooms across her neck, her dark hair wild on the pillow.
She’s not perfect, but she’s alive. Raw. Beautiful.
