I kiss him back just as hard, biting his lip until I taste blood.
His hand leaves my hair, grabs my thigh, yanks it up around his hip. "Is this what you want? You want me to treat you like you're mine?"
"Yes!"
"Even after you betrayed me?"
"I didn't?—"
"Shut up." His other hand is at my jeans, yanking them open. "Just shut the fuck up."
He shoves my jeans down, spins me to face the wall. I hear his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper.
"This doesn't change anything," he growls in my ear. "You're still going home. You're still going to be my perfect little wife. And you're going to smile and nod and do exactly what I say."
"Like hell?—"
He enters me in one brutal thrust.
I cry out, hands bracing against the wall. He's not gentle. Doesn't wait for me to adjust. Just fucks me with punishing intensity.
"You're mine," he snarls. "My wife. My responsibility. And you don't get to run to Alexei Morozov when things get hard."
"I hate you?—"
"No, you don't." His hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just holding. "You love me. That's the problem. You love me and you don't know what to do with it."
The truth of it crashes through me.
I do. God help me, I do.
"Say it," he demands. "Tell me."
"No—"
"Say it, Gemma."
His angle changes, hitting that spot that makes me see stars. I'm climbing, spiraling, losing control.
"I—" I can't. Can't give him this. Can't give him ammunition when he's already won.
"Say it or I stop."
"You wouldn't?—"
He stills. Completely. Buried inside me but not moving.
"Saint!"
"Say it."
Tears are streaming down my face. "I love you."
The words break something in both of us.
He starts moving again, faster, harder, one hand still on my throat, the other between my legs finding my clit.
"Again."
