The space between us disappears. My breath catches when our bodies align like they were built for this, like they don’t care about rings or deals or consequences.
His mouth brushes the corner of mine.
Electric.
My fingers curl into his shirt as tension snaps tight, every nerve awake. The memory of him floods me all at once, sharp enough to make my knees weak.
He kisses me slowly.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing desperate.
Just heat and control and three years of unfinished longing pushing into my mouth like a confession.
His hand slides into my hair, gripping just enough to make my scalp tingle. My back hits the wall. His body cages mine without crushing. His mouth moves down my jaw, brushing my neck carefully like he’s trying not to bruise what’s already been bruised.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he murmurs.
I don’t.
His hands slide along my hips, thumbs hooking closer, daring. The warmth of his body presses against mine, hard and insistent. And not the only thing hard, and my breath breaks when I feel exactly how affected he is.
“Darling,” he breathes, and my name sounds like a threat and a prayer.
For a moment the world shrinks to just us.
Then something inside me snaps.
I push him back.
He stares at me, breathing hard, eyes dark, mouth swollen from kissing me like he forgot how to behave.
“You don’t get to have me like this,” I say quietly. “Not while she wears your ring.”
His expression hardens.
“She’s not in this room.”
“She’s always in the room,” I whisper, and it comes out rawer than I meant.
I step away.
He drags a hand through his hair, frustration written across his face.
“Stay,” he says, quieter now, like he’s not ordering. Like he’s asking.
I hesitate.
The heat in his eyes almost pulls me back.
Instead I shake my head.
“I need air.”
“My men won’t let you leave the clubhouse again,” he warns.
I leave the room before I can change my mind.
