“You don’t get to say that while you’re engaged.”
“Engaged ain’t married,” I say, the words rougher now, more Diablo, less polite.
“Why aren’t you married, yet?”
“She ain’t you.”
“Engaged is enough,” Darling says, and her voice fractures like it cost her blood to say it.
I should step back.
I don’t.
I catch her wrists and pin them to the desk on either side of her hips, not hard enough to hurt, just firm enough to make her feel the truth of me. My body crowds hers. My thigh slides between her legs and she sucks in a breath like her body hates her for reacting.
Her eyes flare. Angry. Hurt. Wanting.
“Say stop,” I murmur. “And I stop.”
Her lips part. Her throat works. Her wrists flex, not trying to get away, just testing the hold.
She doesn’t say it.
That is permission, the only kind I will take from her.
I lower my mouth to her neck, not the bruise yet, just below her jaw where I remember she likes it, where she used to melt like she didn’t have bones. My lips brush her skin, soft and slow, and her whole body jerks like she’s been struck.
“Diablo,” she breathes, and it sounds like a plea and a warning.
I make a low vibration in my throat and bite down gently, just enough to make her gasp, just enough to remind her that I can be careful and cruel in the same breath if I want to be.
Her knees go weak. She tries to hide it.
I feel it anyway as she moves against my hardness straining against my jeans.
I lift my head and look at her. Her pupils are blown. Her mouth is parted. Her face is furious with itself.
“You still taste like Miami,” I say, voice rough. “Like coconut and sin.”
“Don’t,” she whispers, and it is not a stop. It is a please. It is a don’t make me feel this.
I slide one hand from her wrist to her waist and drag my palm up her side, slow, claiming. My fingers skim beneath the edge of her tank, heat to heat, and she trembles so hard the desk squeaks under her.
My other hand stays on her wrist, pinning, anchoring.
“You want to fight me?” I ask, mouth at her ear, my breath wet on her skin. “Fight.”
Then I move against her, just once, just enough to show her I know exactly where I’m hard, she’s soft and exactly how fast she’s getting slick.
Her head tips back before she can stop it. A sound slips out of her, sharp and broken.
I smile against her throat like a devil.
“You hate me,” I murmur.
She glares at me, breathing hard. “I hate what you did.”
“And you still want me,” I say.
