"You... you..." She waves a hand at the road, unable to articulate the sensory overload.
"Admit it," I say, stepping into her personal space again. I back her toward the wooden railing that guards the cliff edge. "You liked it. Better than sitting in a coffee shop reading zoning laws."
"I did not like it," she lies. Her chest heaves. "I'm here to inspect the site. Show me the nesting grounds."
"Look around, Cassandra." I gesture wide.
She turns, looking at the clearing. It’s a plateau of rock and scrub pine. "Where is the structure going?"
"Right here," I point to the bedrock. "Foundation drilled into the stone. Low impact. Solar grid on the roof. We’re not cuttingdown the old growth. We’re building into the rock." I point to the craggy cliff face to the left. "The falcons nest in the high crevices, three hundred feet up. The building will be single-story, low profile. We won't touch their flight paths."
She walks the perimeter, her lawyer brain engaging. Checking sightlines, drainage, topography. I watch her. I watch the way her hips sway in that pencil skirt, the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking.
"The noise," she counters, turning back to me. "Motorcycles. Construction."
"Electric ATVs for the rescue ops," I say smoothly. "And we respect the mountain. We don't rev engines up here unless it's life or death."
She pauses, looking at me with grudging surprise. "You've thought about this."
"We're not savages, Cassandra. We live here. We protect this." I take a step closer, closing the trap. "Why are you really fighting this? Is it the birds? Or is it because you took a look at me and decided I was everything you're supposed to hate?"
She lifts her chin. "I don't hate you. I don't know you. You're just an obstacle to my client's interests."
"Liar."
I’m on her in a second. I crowd her against the railing. Behind her is a thousand-foot drop. In front of her is six-foot-four of possessive biker.
"You felt it yesterday," I murmur, bracing my hands on the railing on either side of her, boxing her in. "In the alley. And youfelt it just now on the bike. Your pulse hammers against your skin like a live wire ready to snap."
"Adrenaline," she gasps, her eyes darting to my mouth. "It's just adrenaline."
"Is it?" I lower my head, inhaling the scent of her neck. "You smell like adrenaline. And arousal."
"Chase..." A warning that sounds like a plea.
"Say it again," I growl, my voice dropping into a register that vibrates through the rock beneath us. "I want to hear you scream my name while I’m buried to the hilt in your soaking pussy, my cock stretching you until you can’t remember your own fucking name. I want to feel your clit twitching against my thumb while I fill you with my seed, marking you so deep no other man will ever dare look at you.
She shoves at my chest, but her hands lack force. They rest there, fingers curling into the leather of my cut. "This is inappropriate. I am opposing counsel."
"You're not opposing anything right now." I move my hand from the railing, my palm spanning the narrow curve of her waist. Her body jolts, her breath hitching as I feel the heat radiating off her through that silk blouse. "Let me go," she whispers, but her nipples are hard against my chest, betraying the lie.
I slide my hand down, over the curve of her hip, gripping her firmly. I pull her flush against me. The size difference is obscene. She has to tilt her head way back to look me in the eye.
"Let me go," she whispers.
"Make me."
We stare at each other, the air crackling. The precipice. I could kiss her right now. Take her mouth and ruin her for anyone else. But I don't just want a kiss. I want surrender.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket, severing the connection.
She jumps, startled, and I step back, giving her an inch of space. She scrambles to pull the phone out. Looking at the screen, she pales.
"It's Mayor Thompson," she says, her voice shaky.
"Answer it," I say, crossing my arms.
She swipes the screen. "Mayor Thompson? Yes. Yes, I'm... I'm inspecting the site." She listens, her eyes widening. She looks at me, horror dawning on her face. "What? No. No, that's not—who sent you a picture?"
