I press harder, letting her feel the weight of me, letting her feel the hardness of me against her stomach.
“You reckless little fool,” I whisper. “You ran into a death squad. You let them put a gun to your ribs. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
“I...”
“Shut up.”
I glare at her. I’m furious and terrified. Her pulse hammers against my hand, her chest heaving against mine.
The anger is still there, but it’s changing. It’s heating up, melting into adrenaline, turning toxic and irresistible.
I look at her mouth. She isn’t cowering. She’s staring at me with that same manic intensity, breathing in fast, shallow gasps.
Her wrists twist in my grip.
“Do it,” she whispers.
It’s not a challenge this time. It’s a plea.
She’s shaking, craving a collision, desperate to feel something other than the terror.
And God help me, I need it too.
Releasing her wrists, I grab her face with both hands and shove my mouth down on hers.
This time, there’s no hesitation. No pulling back.
I carry her two steps before slamming her back against the solid wood of the dresser. We don’t make it to the bed. It’s too far.
My hands are everywhere, tearing her ruined shirt open. She isn’t wearing a bra. I cup her bare breast, my thumb grazing the hardened peak, and a ragged cry tears from her throat.
“Cassian, please.”
She’s desperate, drowning in desire.
My usually precise hands shake as I undo my belt and shove my jeans down. I reach between us, hooking my fingers into the silk of her torn panties and ripping them the rest of the way.
She gasps, wrapping her legs tighter around my waist, arching into the friction. She claws at my shoulders, her nails biting into my skin, demanding I finish what I started.
“You asked for the worst of me,” I growl against her ear. “Here it is.”
I lift her hips, positioning myself, and shove inside her with one hard, ruthless thrust.
She screams.
Her head throws back, exposing the long, white line of her throat.
I freeze for a second, my muscles locking as the heat of her surrounds me. She’s tight—so tight it hurts. Her body clamps down around me, hot and wet, a perfect, agonizing vice.
I snap my hips forward.
“Yes,” she gasps, her fingers digging into my hair. “Yes.”
I pound into her, pinning her to the wood with every thrust. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t careful. It’s a violent, desperate clash of adrenaline and trauma. The friction is unbearable, the pleasure sharp, edging on pain. She matches my violence, meeting every thrust with a desperate roll of her hips, biting my shoulder as she whimpers my name.
“Cassian... Cassian...”
Hearing my name on her lips undoes me. I’m not the Don. I’m not a tactician. I’m a man burying himself in the one thing he refused to let the world take.
