Her cheeks flush. Her eyes go bright, angry, wounded.
“I don’t,” she lies.
I slide my hand down, lower, over the curve of her hip, to the top of her jeans. I hook my thumb into her waistband and tug her closer.
Harder against my cock.
She gasps.
Her body betrays her, hips rolling toward me like it remembers before her pride does.
I press my mouth to the bruise at her collarbone, right on the edge of it, and the growl that rips out of me is not pretend.
I do not kiss it sweet.
I kiss it like an oath. Like a punishment. Like worship.
She shudders, eyes squeezing shut, and when she opens them again there is wet shine there, she refuses to let fall.
“Whoever did that,” I say, voice low, filthy with promise, “I’m going to make him beg for mercy in Spanish and English.”
“Rico,” she says, like she’s reminding me.
My nostrils flare. “I don’t ever want his name on your lips again.”
“You can’t fix me by breaking him,” she whispers, breath shaking.
“I’m not fixing you,” I answer. “I’m taking back what’s mine, cariño.”
She flinches like the words hit someplace soft, someplace private.
“I’m not yours,” she snaps, but her knees are still pressed open around my thigh.
“Then why are you soaking my leg right now?” I ask, quiet and brutal, and her face goes hot with fury.
She jerks at her wrists again, not to escape, but to reach.
To touch.
To claw.
I let her.
I loosen my hold just enough for her to slide one hand up my chest, fingers digging into my cut like she wants to hurt me for wanting her. She grabs fistfuls of leather and pulls me closer.
“You think you can say mine and it makes it true?” she whispers.
I lick along the side of her throat, slow, tasting her, and her breath catches like she hates how good it feels.
“It ain’t the word that makes it true,” I murmur. “It’s the way you react when I get close, mi cariño.”
I grind again, slower this time, and she bites down on a sound like she refuses to give it to me.
I pull back, just enough to look her in the eye.
“Tell me to stop,” I say again.
Her lips tremble with it.
