Let them come.
Let them try.
Because if anyone touched what was mine again—I’d make damn sure they regretted it.
I stepped through the door and froze.
She was standing in the hotel room, bathed in the low glow of the city lights behind her—like something out of a dream. Or maybe a fantasy. My jersey hung off her shoulders, loose and oversized, but it clung in all the right places. Tight jeans hugged her hips, and those stiletto boots… fuck. My pulse kicked hard. Every part of me responded like she was made to undo me.
And maybe she was.
“Damn,” I muttered, voice low, rough. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
Kennedy turned, a soft blush rising to her cheeks. That blush—God, I lived for it. It was the kind of reaction I’d never get tired of provoking. She tried to hide behind a quip, but her voice betrayed her.
“Just trying to look decent for your big night,” she said, barely steady.
I didn’t say anything. I just moved. Crossed the space between us like gravity had its own plan. I didn’t touch her at first—just let the silence stretch until she was squirming under the heat of my gaze. Then I kissed her. Hard. Hungry. Like I needed her to know exactly who she belonged to.
My hands tangled in her hair as I deepened the kiss, tasting the hesitation, the need, the surrender. Her body softened against mine, and I drank in the moment like oxygen.
When I finally pulled back, our foreheads nearly touching, I watched her eyes—dazed, glassy, wrecked in the way I liked.
“You know what you do to me?” I asked, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. “Fuck, Ken.”
Her breath caught.
Good.
I wasn’t just saying it—I meant it. Every damn word. And I was going to prove it.
I ducked down, pressing my mouth to the spot just beneath her ear, letting her scent drown out the rest of the world. Her pulse fluttered under my lips, and I followed it down to her neck, kissing her softly—then letting my teeth drag lightly over her skin.
She let out a soft gasp as I sucked gently, just hard enough to leave a mark.
I wanted people to see it. I wanted her to feel it.
I wanted her to remember—no matter what came next?—
She was mine.
Her fingers fisted my shirt like she needed something to hold onto—like I was the only thing keeping her grounded. That sound, that look in her eyes—it did something to me. Set every nerve ending on fire.
“Nick…” she whispered, breath hitching, equal parts surprise and surrender. My name on her lips wasn’t just a sound—it was a tether.
I leaned back just enough to see the mark blooming against her skin. A flush of color right below her jawline, undeniable proof that she was mine. Mine to protect. Mine to ruin. Mine to love in whatever way I damn well pleased.
“I want everyone to know,” I murmured, voice low and rough as I bent toward her ear. “You’re mine now—and no one’s taking you from me.”
I kissed along her jaw, slow and claiming, like I could map out her bones and memorize the feel of every angle. She trembled slightly, her breath catching again, and I swore it lit a fuse deep in my chest.
Her cheeks turned a deeper shade, and the sight of it—of her letting me in, letting me mark her, own her in this small but fierce way—sent a rush of something possessive and primal straight through me.
Because this wasn’t just about lust. It wasn’t just heat or hunger or even the chaos surrounding us. It was about us. Whatever we were becoming. Whatever we already were.
In the middle of the noise, the pressure, the spotlight—we had this.
And as I pulled her closer, burying my face in her neck like I could hide there forever, only one thought circled like a vow in my mind: She was beautiful. She was fierce. And she was absolutely, irrevocably mine.
