“I don’t.”
He stepped toward me, and I stepped closer, our faces almost touching. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.
“You’re controlling.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“You broke into my house,” I shot back. “I feel like that detail is being overlooked.”
Something dark flashed in his eyes. “You’re mine.”
The words rumbled out like a warning, and my eyes widened. Oh hell no. I jabbed my finger into his chest. “I am no one’s.”
A low growl tore from him. Before I could react, his hand wrapped around my wrist and yanked me forward. My body slammed against his, and then his mouth crashed down on mine.
The kiss was rough. Furious. Demanding. Like he was trying to prove a point. I shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge. And the worst part? I kissed him back.
He didn't give me a chance to breathe, to think, to do anything but feel. One hand fisted in my hair, angling my head just so, while the other arm banded around my waist, lifting me off my feet. My back hit the wall with a thud that knocked the air from my lungs, but he was already there, his body a hard, unyielding cage pressing me into the plaster.
He broke the kiss, both of us panting, his eyes black fire in the dim light of my kitchen. "You want to act like you don't belong to me?" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated straight to my core. "I'll show you exactly whose you are."
His free hand tore at the button of my jeans, the sound of the zipper harsh and loud. He yanked them down my hips, taking my panties with them in one rough, impatient motion. The cool air hit my heated skin, and I shivered, a gasp escaping my lips. He hooked a hand under my knee, dragging my leg up and around his hip, opening me to me completely. The position was raw, exposed, and sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust through my veins.
I glared at him, defiance warring with the undeniable ache building between my thighs. I could feel the hard, thick ridge of him pressing against me through his jeans, and my body betrayed me, arching into him, seeking more.
He saw it. A smirk, cruel and triumphant, twisted his lips. "That's what I thought," he growled. He held my gaze as he reached between us, freeing himself. I couldn't look away as he took himself in his hand, stroking his thick length once, twice. The sight was primal, erotic, and made my mouth go dry.
Then he was notching himself at my entrance. He paused, the blunt head of his cock stretching me, teasing me. "Say it," he demanded, his voice rough gravel.
"Never," I gasped out, my hands clenching into fists against his shoulders.
With a guttural groan, he drove into me in one hard, deep stroke. I cried out, a mix of pain and overwhelming pleasure as he filled me completely, stretching me to my limit. He gave me no time to adjust, setting a punishing rhythm that was all about possession, all about claiming. Each thrust was deep, powerful, hitting a place inside me that made stars explode behind my eyes.
The scent of him—leather and soap and pure male—filled my senses. The sounds of our bodies meeting, his harsh grunts,my helpless whimpers, filled the small space. His grip on my thigh was bruising, a brand I knew I'd feel for days. He was everywhere, in my head, under my skin, buried so deep inside me I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.
His mouth found my neck, his teeth scraping my sensitive skin before he bit down, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to mark me. To claim me. The possessive act sent me hurtling toward the edge. My inner muscles clenched around him, and he growled his approval against my throat.
"You're mine, Emma," he grunted, his thrusts becoming erratic, more forceful. "This is mine. Say it."
I couldn't. The words were trapped behind a moan as the first wave of my orgasm crashed over me. My vision went white, my body convulsing as pleasure, sharp and exquisite, ripped through me. I was lost, spiraling, completely at his mercy.
He followed me over the edge with a hoarse roar of my name. I felt him swell inside me, and then a deep, pulsing heat as he came, pouring himself into me, spilling hot and thick against my cervix. The sensation was intimate, primal, and sent another, smaller shockwave through my already spent body.
We stayed like that for a long moment, his body pinning mine to the wall, both of us breathing heavily, the only sound in the quiet kitchen. Slowly, he lowered my leg, but he didn't pull away. He rested his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his breathing slowly evening out.
I felt his release, warm and wet, beginning to trickle down my inner thigh. A stark, undeniable reminder of what he'd just done. Of how he'd taken me. Of how, for a few blinding minutes, I had let him.
Twelve
Emma
Hawk acted like nothing had happened, and that was the most infuriating part. One moment we were at each other’s throats in my kitchen, all that anger and heat swirling around us, tangled feelings neither of us should have been dealing with. The next, he was cooking. Like it was just another normal night, like he hadn’t just lost his mind ten minutes ago.
The pan hissed on the stove, a familiar sound that should have been comforting, but it just made my thoughts feel louder. He scooped food onto a plate with these steady, controlled movements while my brain felt like it was spinning.
He slid the plate across the table toward me. “Eat.”
I stared at the plate, then shot him a look. “Are you serious right now?”
