I nod, my lips parting, but no sound comes out. Just a shaky exhale that feels like surrender. His fingers tighten, just a fraction, and the pressure sends a jolt through me, straight to my core.
My thighs clench around him, instinctive, and I want to die because he feels it. His eyes darken, a flicker of hunger that makes my stomach twist. A low sound rumbles in his throat, not a growl but close, and it vibrates through me, making my toes curl against the cold marble.
His gaze drops, catching on the watch and bracelet glinting on my wrist—the ones he made me wear, the ones that track me, listen to me. His jaw ticks again, harder this time, like he’s just remembered his men could hear us, could know exactly what’s happening in this bathroom.
His eyes meet mine, and I see it—the intent, the need to keep this moment ours. My breath catches, because I want that too, want this to be just us, no one else listening in.
“Shhh…”
His free hand moves, quick but careful, fingers unclasping the bracelet first, then the watch. The metal clinks softly as he sets them on the counter, his movements precise, careful. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small key fob, and presses a button. A tiny red light on the watch blinks out, dead. Silent. He’s shut it off, cut the line to his world, and the air feels thicker now, like we’re alone in a way we weren’t before.
I nod, a small jerk of my chin, because I get it. I’m glad.
His eyes hold mine, darker now, like he’s reading every thought I’m too scared to say.
For a moment, we freeze. Like if either of us moves, the air itself will crack. My pulse stumbles, and I break first, gaze slipping down, anywhere but him.
Slowly, he tilts my chin, thumb and forefinger firm but steady, guiding my gaze back up when I try to drop it. A strand of damp hair sticks to my cheek, and he brushes it back, tucking it gently behind my ear as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for a man like him to do.
Then he leans closer. His breath ghosts my lips, hot and steady, almost a kiss but not quite. “I can go,” he says, voice even, almost too calm. “If you ask me to.”
The words hang there, heavy, impossible. Because he doesn’t look like a man who leaves. He looks like a man who stays. Whotakes. Who owns. And yet he’s offering me an out anyway, like it costs him nothing, when I know it costs him everything.
My throat works around a lump, because I don’t know how to say,“Don’t you dare.”So, I don’t say it. I move—because I can’t not.
My hands, trembling, slide up his chest, fingers catching on the blood-streaked fabric, then higher, to the ink scrawled across his throat. The letters are bold, black, jagged against his skin, and I stop there. As if I’ve found the one place I’m allowed to touch. I lean in until my breath grazes him, and press my lips just below his jaw, where the vein beats hard and fast under ink and skin.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a dare. A spark. My tongue flicks out, tasting salt, steel, and him.
He freezes for a heartbeat, breath hitching, and I feel it—the moment his control starts to crack. My fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting through cotton, and I shift, grinding against him just enough to make him feel how much I want this, how much I’m done pretending I don’t. A low groan escapes him, raw and rough, and it’s like I’ve flipped a switch.
His control snaps.
One hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back. The other grips my waist, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. Then his mouth takes mine—violent, hungry, like he’s been waiting years to carve his claim into me. Teeth and tongue and desperate hunger that’s been building since the moment we met.
I kiss him back like I’m drowning. Like he’s air. My hands claw at his shirt, pulling him closer,needinghim closer. He tastes of mint and violence and something dark that makes my knees weak.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, demanding, taking. I moan against his lips and feel him shudder. His grip tightens in my hair, angling my head so he can kiss me deeper, harder.
“Fuck,” he growls against my mouth, then bites my lower lip. Not gentle. It stings and sends heat straight between my legs.
I gasp, and he swallows the sound, one hand sliding down to cup my ass, lifting me slightly so I’m pressed against the bathroom counter. The marble is cold against my back, but he’s furnace-hot against my front.
“I’ve wanted to do this since you groped me drunk,” he murmurs against my throat.
“I’ve wanted you to,” I admit, breathless. “God, I’ve wanted—”
But the words stumble, because my own body shocks me. The way it arches into him, the way heat pools low and merciless between my thighs. Like it knows what to do without permission. Like it’s been waiting for him.
Never before.
Not once in six years with Evan.
Not once with anyone. Is this even me? This greedy, shaking version of myself that can’t stop pressing closer, like I’ve been starved and only now learned what hunger feels like?
His teeth graze my neck, sharp and deliberate, and my words choke off into a moan. My hands slide under his shirt, fingers finding the hard planes of his stomach, the scars that tell stories I’m not sure I’m ready to hear. His skin’s hot, taut, and my nails scrape lightly, urging him on.
Then he shifts his hips.
