"You’re all the way over there by the door. If we’re going to negotiate, I need you closer. I don’t like shouting."
"I can hear you perfectly fine from here."
"Cassandra." I let her name roll off my tongue, heavy and demanding. "Come here."
She bristles, her chin lifting. "Stop ordering me around. I am not one of your prospects or whatever you call them."
"No," I agree, my gaze dropping to her mouth. "You're definitely not a prospect."
She takes a tentative step forward, then another, until she stands within arm’s reach, positioned between my spread knees. She realizes the trap too late. She tries to step back, but I don’t wait for an answer. I reach out, my hands locking onto her hips and hauling her forward. The wool of her skirt bunches under my grip as I drag her into the V of my legs. Her thighs slam against mine, and the sharp intake of her breath tells me exactly how much she likes being handled.
"Chase!" She gasps, her hands flying out to brace against my shoulders. "This violates rule number two!"
"We haven't agreed on the rules yet," I remind her, looking up at her. The height difference is negated by my position on the desk, putting my face level with her chest, her face hovering above mine. "And frankly, your rules are boring."
"They are necessary for professional conduct!"
"Fuck professional conduct," I growl. "You walked in here looking like a high-priced lawyer and smelling like a woman who’s already halfway to coming in her panties. You’ve been looking at me like you want to slap me or ride my cock since the town hall, and I’m done guessing which one hits the floor first."
"I do not want to?—"
"Liar."
I slide my hands up her sides, feeling the heat radiating off her. My thumbs brush the underside of her ribs, detecting the frantic thunder of her heart against her ribcage. She trembles. I know the sour tang of fear, and this isn’t it. Her body recognizes its mate long before the brain has caught up.
"You hate me," she whispers, her hands gripping the leather of my cut, bunching the material in her fists. "You stand for everything I oppose. Chaos. Violence. Disregard for the law."
"And you stand for everything I despise," I counter, leaning in until my breath ghosts over her lips. "Rules. Bureaucracy. Control."
I move one hand to the small of her back, pressing her closer, eliminating the last inch of space between her body and mine. The rigidness of her posture betrays a desperate attempt to maintain control.
"Relax," I command softly. "Let go."
"I can't," she breathes.
"Yes, you can. You just need permission." I slide my other hand up her spine to the nape of her neck, my fingers tangling in the severe bun, finding the pins holding it together. "You’re so tight, Cassandra. Wound so tight you’re about to snap. Let me break you."
Her eyes flutter shut. "That’s… not a negotiation strategy."
"Forget the strategy." I pull a pin free, then another, letting them ping softly against the concrete floor. "Tell me you don't feel this. The Thunderbolt. Tell me you didn't feel it the second you looked at me in that town hall meeting."
She opens her eyes, wet and shining with a mixture of frustration and lust. "It doesn't make sense. We are nothing alike."
"Doesn't matter." I pull the last pin, and her heavy dark hair cascades down, spilling over my hands, softening the sharp lines of her face. "Biology doesn't give a shit about your zoning permits."
I tighten my grip on the back of her neck, tilting her head back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat. I lean forward, burying my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply. I drag my open mouth over her pulse point, tasting the salt of her skin and the sweet, addictive flavor of her arousal. She gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders as I mark her.
"Chase," she whimpers, a sound of pure, unadulterated need.
"Little shark," I murmur against her throat, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of muscle. "That’s it. Stop fighting me."
She shudders, her hips instinctively grinding forward against my thigh. That small movement snaps the last thread of my restraint.
I pull back just enough to look at her, my eyes searching hers. "I’m taking your mouth, Cassandra. Not for the cameras or the Mayor, but because you’re mine and you’ve been begging for this since the second you walked into my shop. Don't bother telling me to stop—we both know you're too drenched to mean it."
She stares at me, her chest heaving, her lips parted and swollen. She could stop this. She could invoke her legal threats, walk out the door, and burn the whole deal to the ground.
Instead, she leans in, her voice a broken whisper. "If I tell you to stop… will you?"
