My pulse stuttered.
“I won’t save you from this,” he said. “I won’t soften it. I won’t pretend this is temporary.”
“I don’t want temporary.”
“Good.”
He kissed me fully then—finally. Deep. Claiming.
His tongue swept into my mouth like he already owned every corner of it. One hand fisted in my hair, angling my head exactly how he wanted it; the other slid down my back to grip my ass, hauling me flush against him so I could feel every thick, rigid inch of him pressing against me.
I moaned into his mouth—helpless, hungry.
He swallowed the sound.
When he broke the kiss, my lips were swollen, wet, tingling.
He didn’t let me catch my breath.
His mouth moved to my throat—biting, sucking, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to mark me with sensation. His hand slid between us, palming my breast through my sweater, thumb flicking over my nipple until it ached.
“Take this off,” he said against my pulse.
I yanked the sweater over my head. Bra followed—fast, desperate.
Bare.
He looked down at me like I was something he’d hunted for years.
Then he backed me against the cold window glass.
The chill against my spine made me gasp.
He pinned my wrists above my head with one hand.
The other slid down—over my ribs, my stomach, under the waistband of my jeans again.
This time he didn’t tease through fabric.
He pushed my jeans and panties down just far enough to bare me.
Fingers found me instantly—sliding through drenched folds, circling my clit with perfect, brutal pressure.
My hips bucked.
He pressed his thigh between mine, forcing my legs wider, giving himself better access.
“Grind on my hand,” he ordered. “Show me how badly you want it.”
I did—rocking shamelessly against his palm, clit dragging against rough calluses, pleasure spiking so fast I saw white.
“Cassian—please?—”
“You’re close again,” he said, voice dark with satisfaction. “I can feel you fluttering. So greedy for it.”
He pushed two fingers deep—curled them—thrust once, twice?—
Then stopped.
