"I understand," I whisper, the words barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
"Good." He releases my jaw but does not stop touching me, his thumb tracing the line of my collarbone, dipping beneath the neckline of my dress. "You will tell me if you want me to stop. You will use words, not hesitation. I need to hear your voice."
"I will," I promise, and the elevator doors slide open.
We stumble down the hallway, me still wrapped around him, his hands gripping my ass now with a possessiveness that catches my breath. He fumbles with the key card, growls something in Orcish that sounds like a curse, and finally shoves the door open.
I expect him to drop me on the bed immediately. Instead, he sets me down carefully, almost gently, and steps back.
I blink, suddenly cold without his body against mine. "What?—"
"I packed," he says, nodding toward his duffel bag sitting neatly by the door, everything folded and organized with military precision. "I was preparing to leave."
The sight of it punches the air from my lungs. He was really going to go. He was going to walk away because I told him to, even though it was the last thing either of us wanted.
"Unpack it," I demand, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to sound firm and decisive. The words come out breathier than I intended, but I stand my ground, refusing to look away from him.
He tilts his head, studying me with that intense, predatory focus that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and protected. His dark eyes search my face, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign that I don't mean what I'm saying. "Are you certain?" he asks, his voice low and careful, each word measured. "Once I unpack, I will not be leaving this room. Not tonight. Not tomorrow." He takes a single step closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Not until you give me another order to go."
"Yes." I cross the space between us, stumbling a little in my heels, and shove his chest. It is like pushing a wall. "I un-fire you. I un-break up with you. I un-ruin everything. Now unpack your stupid loincloths and get over here."
A slow smile spreads across his face, sharp and predatory. "As you command."
He moves past me, deliberately brushing his shoulder against mine, and lifts the duffel bag with one hand. He drops it in the corner, nowhere near unpacked, and turns back to me with that same dangerous smile.
"Now," he says, voice dropping an octave, "you will remove the dress."
My hands fly to the zipper before my brain catches up. I fumble with it, fingers clumsy with nerves and need, and finally manage to drag it down. The fabric pools at my feet, leaving me standing in a strapless bra and underwear that definitely do not match because I was not planning for this when I packed.
Kruk's gaze travels over me slowly, taking inventory. His pupils dilate, his breathing deepens, and when his eyes meet mine again there is hunger there, raw and unfiltered.
"Beautiful," he rumbles. "You have no idea how many times I have imagined this moment."
"Tell me." I step out of the dress, kicking it aside. "Tell me what you imagined."
He moves toward me with deliberate slowness, each step measured, and I realize this is part of it. The control. The anticipation. He is a tactician even here, building the tension until I am ready to scream.
"I imagined tasting you," he says, stopping just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "Every part of you. I imagined making you come on my tongue until you forgot the name of every man who came before me."
My knees wobble. I lock them, refusing to collapse, but I cannot stop the whimper that escapes.
"I imagined pinning you down," he continues, reaching out to trace one finger along my bra. "Holding you still while you struggle and beg. Teaching your body to surrender."
"I don't beg," I manage to say, though my voice comes out barely above a whisper, breathless and trembling despite my attempt at defiance.
His smile sharpens into something predatory, something that promises he knows exactly how this will end. Those golden-capped tusks catch the light as his lips curve. "You will," he says with absolute certainty, the words less a prediction and more a vow.
Then he kisses me again, and this time there is nothing gentle about it. His mouth claims mine with bruising intensity, his tongue demanding entry, and I open for him without hesitation. His hands move to my back, finding the clasp of my bra, and he unhooks it with surprising dexterity for someone with fingers the size of sausages.
The fabric falls away. Cool air hits my skin, and then his hands are on me, palms rough and warm, cupping my breastslike he is testing their weight. His thumbs brush over my nipples and I gasp into his mouth, arching into the touch.
"Sensitive," he notes, pulling back just enough to watch my face. He does it again, circling one nipple with deliberate slowness, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning. "You will not hide your reactions from me. I want to hear every sound you make."
He pinches one nipple lightly, just enough pressure to send a jolt of sensation through me that feels like a livewire connecting directly to every nerve ending in my body. I shout, the sound escaping before I can stop it. The sensation is sharp and perfect, toeing that delicious line between pleasure and pain that short-circuits my brain.
"Better," he approves, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction that I feel vibrating through my chest. His eyes are locked on my face, studying every micro-expression like he's cataloging my reactions for future reference, and there's something almost clinical about his intensity that somehow makes it even hotter.
He walks me backward until my legs hit the ridiculous heart-shaped bed, then gives me a gentle push. I fall onto the red satin sheets, bouncing slightly, and he stands over me, blocking out the soft lighting.
