"I said leave it." I cross the room in three long strides, invading her space until I'm towering over her. "You're not a maid. You're the nanny."
"Part of being a nanny is cleaning up messes," she shoots back, chin tilting up. "Which is lucky for you, because you’re the biggest mess I’ve ever seen."
"I have enough messes," I growl, stepping closer until the tips of my bare toes nudge her socks. "I don't need you cleaning mine up. I need you to listen."
"I'm listening," she whispers, her breath hitching as she looks up at me. "I’m also noticing that for a man who says he's a monster, you're remarkably concerned about whether or not I'm picking up crayons."
The air between us crackles, thick enough to choke on. Her scent hits me again. I can smell that she’s already fucking drenched for me, the pungent, localized musk of her pussy reacting to my proximity, weeping for the cock that claimed her last night.
"You have no idea what you're talking about, Bianca. You think because you paint pretty pictures and sing lullabies you understand this world? You understand me? You think because I let you take my cock that you have a seat at the table?"
"I think you want me to believe you're a monster because it's easier than admitting you like having me here," she says, voice trembling slightly, but she holds her ground. "But monsters don't look at their daughters the way you do. Monsters don'tcome home and check the locks three times just to make sure I’m breathing."
"I hurt people," I state flatly. "That's my job. I break things. I end things."
"And yet," she whispers, reaching out. Her hand hovers over my chest, right over my heart. "You haven't broken me. If anything... you made me feel more alive than I’ve been in years. Even if I can still feel where you bruised my hips."
I catch her wrist before she can touch me. My grip is large, encompassing her entire forearm. I could snap her bone with a twitch of my thumb. The contrast—my scarred, calloused hand against her pale, smooth skin—jars me.
"I will," I warn her, voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. "If you stay close, I’ll break you, Bianca. I’ll consume you. There won’t be anything left for your art or your city life. You’ll just be a mark on my skin and a ghost in this house."
"I'm not asking to leave," she breathes. "So stop trying to scare me away. It's insulting. I've dealt with Philadelphia debt collectors; you're just a big man with a lot of leather and even more feelings."
The banter is a shield, but her eyes tell a different story. They’re dark with the same hunger that’s eating me alive. And for the third time, my control snaps.
I yank her toward me. She gasps as she collides with my chest, a solid wall of muscle and heat. I wrap my other arm around her waist, locking her against me, cementing her hips to mine. I can feel her pussy already fucking soaked through her leggings, the sticky cream of her arousal branding my thighs with a heat that rivals the fire.
"You’re in deep now," I mutter, staring down at her mouth. "The exit closed the second you let me mark you. Now, there is no looking back. You’re mine, Bianca. I’ll burn this whole valley to the ground before I let you walk away from me."
"I wouldn't know how to leave even if you threw me out," she whispers, her eyes fluttering shut as she leans into the heat of my chest. "I can't breathe when I'm not here. And I definitely can't breathe when you're looking at me like you want to eat me for dinner."
I groan, a low, guttural sound of defeat, and bury my face in the crook of her neck. I inhale deeply, dragging the scent of her into my lungs, trying to replace the smell of the club, the violence, and the Costas with her.
"Shane," she whimpers, hands coming up to grip my biceps. Her touch burns through my black t-shirt.
"Quiet," I order against her skin. I press a hard, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive cord of her neck, feeling her pulse hammer against my lips. It races. Good. It should race for me.
I map my hands over her back, my palms heavy with the memory of her bare skin against the rug. I already know every inch of her topography—exactly how her pussy felt clamping around my cock last night—but through the coarse wool of her sweater, the friction is a new kind of torture. She’s still that dangerous, velvet soft that makes my jagged edges ache, her pussy is already dripping through her leggings, weeping for the friction of my cock as she yields to my touch with the practiced surrender of a woman who knows she’s my property.
I walk us backward until the back of my legs hit the sofa. I sit heavily, pulling her down with me. I settle her in my lap, herlegs straddling my waist. The position is lethal. Her pussy settles against the thick, aching ridge of my cock straining against the denim of my jeans. The pressure is instantaneous, the heat of her soaked center branding my thighs through the fabric. I grit my teeth to keep from roaring and burying myself in her right here.
She gasps, eyes flying open, realizing exactly what she sits on. She rocks her hips, just a fraction of an inch, and I nearly lose it.
"Don't move," I grate out, hands gripping her hips to hold her still. "Just... sit. Feel what you do to me."
"I feel it," she whispers, her hands sliding up to my shoulders. "It's hard to miss, Shane. It's like sitting on a loaded gun."
"It's a lot more dangerous than a gun, Sunshine." I need this. I need the weight of her. I need to feel her anchored to me. It’s the only thing that makes the spinning in my head from the church meeting stop.
She rests her forehead against mine, breathing ragged. "Shane... what are we doing? You said rules. You said boundaries."
"I don't know," I admit, the most terrifying thing I’ve said in years. "I’m just... breathing. For the first time in ten years, I’m just breathing."
I slide one hand up her spine, tangling my fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck. I force her to look at me. Up close, her eyes are endless. I could drown in them and never ask for air.
"Tell me to stop," I say, giving her one last chance. "Tell me to let you get up, go to your room, and lock the door. Tell me you want a 'standard helper' instead of a man who wants to mark every inch of you."
She searches my face, looking past the scars, past the scowl, past the reaper patch on my heart. "No. I like the 'standard' just fine, but I think I prefer the monster."
