"You think this is just a game," he murmurs, leaning in closer. His nose brushes against mine. "You think we're pretending."
"Aren't we?" I breathe.
He brings one hand down, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of my neck. He tilts my head back, exposing my throat. "I don't pretend, Cassandra. When I touch you, I mean it. When I say you smell good, it's because I can't get your scent out of my lungs."
He lowers his head. I close my eyes, every nerve ending in my body screaming in anticipation. I want him to kiss me. God help me, I want this dangerous, arrogant criminal to kiss me until I forget my own name. I tilt my chin up, lips parting, an unspoken invitation. I feel his breath on my lips. I smell the whiskey and the smoke. My hands rise, clutching the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
He hovers there, a millimeter away. The tension pulls so tight it hums.
"Please," I whisper. I don't even know what I'm asking for. The kiss? The release? The end of this torture?
"Begging already?" he rasps.
Chase crashes his mouth down on mine.
It isn't a tentative first kiss. It’s an invasion. He devours me, his lips crushing mine with a force that pins my head back against the wood. I gasp, and he takes the opening, his tongue sweeping into my mouth to tangle with mine. He tastes of dark oak, fire, and dominance.
A moan rips from my throat, vibrating against his mouth. He growls in response, his hand in my hair tightening, angling myhead to deepen the contact. His other hand drops to my waist, fingers digging into my coat, hauling me flush against his hard body. Through the layers of our clothes, I feel the thick, heavy ridge of his cock—rock-hard and demanding—pressing deep into my lower belly. The sheer size of him promises to stretch me wide, and the thought makes my pussy drench the fabric of my skirt.
I melt. My lawyer’s brain, my logic, my rules—they all incinerate in the heat of his mouth. I cling to his shoulders, kissing him back with a desperation that terrifies me. He sucks my lower lip into his mouth, biting down hard enough to sting, before soothing it with a swipe of his tongue. He owns me in this moment. He consumes my breath, my space, my will.
Just as my knees threaten to give out completely, he tears his mouth away.
We both heave for air, chests rising and falling in a rapid, jagged rhythm. He stares down at me, eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the iris. His lips are wet, red, and swollen from the violence of our kiss.
"That," he says, his voice a wrecked, low rasp, "was not for the audience."
He leans in again, brushing his lips against my ear, sending a violent tremor down my spine. "When I get you alone, Cassandra, I’m going to strip that armor off and bury myself so deep inside you that you’ll forget every law but mine. I’m going to mark you until you’re dripping with my seed and everyone in this town knows exactly who owns you."
He pulls away completely, the cold air rushing into the space between us. He looks triumphant.
"Mine," he says again, devastatingly soft. "Now get on the bike. I’m taking you home before I change my mind and take you right here against the wall."
I stand there, trembling, my body aching with unfulfilled need and confused fury. My fingernails dig into my palms. He lit the fuse and walked away to watch me burn. I adjust my coat and steady my breathing. As I climb on behind him and wrap my arms around that solid, heated torso, I realize the terrifying truth.
I hate him, but I’m already addicted to the fire.
4
CHASE
The bell above the door of Peak Wilderness Outfitters jingles, a sharp, cheerful sound that cuts through the low hum of the rock radio station playing in the back. I don’t look up immediately. I keep my head bent over the inventory manifest on the glass counter, my pen tapping a slow, rhythmic cadence against the surface.
I don’t need to look up to know who it is.
The air in the shop changes the second she crosses the threshold. It gets heavier, charged with a static electricity that prickles along the back of my neck and tightens the skin over my knuckles. The scent of her flares—that raw, heavy musk of a woman who’s already soaking her thong for a man she claims to hate. I can practically taste the creaminess of her arousal in the air, cutting through the smells of leather and the sharp, metallic tang of gun oil.
Cassandra.
"We need to talk," she says, her voice clipping through the space between us like a pair of shears.
I finish writing the number on the manifest—seventy-five carabiners, black matte—before I slowly lift my head.
She stands in the center of the aisle, flanked by racks of high-end hiking jackets and shelves of waterproof boots. A diamond dropped in a coal chute. She wears a different suit today, a severe emerald green number with a pencil skirt that hugs her hips so tightly it should be illegal, and a silk blouse the color of heavy cream. Her heels look sharp enough to puncture a lung, and her dark hair is pulled back in a bun so tight it drags at the corners of her eyes.
A lawyer ready to dismantle a witness. A woman who needs to be unraveled, stitch by expensive, restrictive stitch.
"Good morning to you too, Counselor," I drawl, leaning back against the shelves behind the counter, crossing my arms over my chest. The leather of my cut creaks, a sound that usually makes people nervous. Cassandra just narrows her eyes. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Here to buy some climbing gear? Maybe a rope? I can show you some knots."
