"You're not a prisoner." I gesture around the room with my glass. "This is protection."
"From what? From you?" She laughs, and the sound is bitter. "Because last I checked, you're the one who wanted me dead."
The words land exactly where she aimed them, at my conscience. Something I hadn't even realized I still had until I lost my memory.
"That's exactly why you need protection." I take another drink, letting the vodka burn away the guilt trying to claw its way up my throat. "There's still an active hit order on you. Every bratva soldier, as well as hitmen for hire, in this city has been looking for you all these years. Someone is going to recognize you." I pause, waving my hand to encompass her body. "Your disguise isn't that great. You only made your hair a little lighter and shorter."
"And now you want to play hero?" Her voice rises, sharp enough to cut. "You want me to be grateful that you're protecting me from the death sentence you issued?"
"I don't want your gratitude." I set the glass down on the dresser, and the crystal makes a sharp sound against the wood. "I want you alive."
"Why?" She moves closer, and I can see the way her chest heaves with each breath, the way her full breasts strain against the thin fabric of her shirt. "Why do you suddenly care whether I live or die?"
I'm through arguing with her. I've told her several times now that I am canceling the hit on her but it will take time. That I'm keeping her here for protection. Why can't she get that through her thick, beautiful mind?
I close the distance between us and grab her chin firmly, but painlessly, with my thumb and fingers, then kiss her. Hard and possessive.
She goes stiff and hesitates briefly, then surprises the hell out of me when she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me back for all she's worth.
Her mouth is fierce against mine, all teeth and fury and desperate need. She's not surrendering. She's fighting me with her lips, her tongue, her whole body pressed against mine like she wants to crawl inside my skin or tear me apart. Maybe both.
I grip her waist, my fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise, and she makes a sound in her throat that's half moan, half growl. Her hands fist in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting, and I growl back, deepening the kiss until we're both breathless.
My hands slide up her sides, and she arches into my touch. I palm her full breasts through the thin fabric, feeling her nipples harden under my thumbs, and she gasps against my mouth. Perfect. I want her undone. Want her as wrecked as I feel.
I tear my mouth from hers long enough to yank her shirt over her head, and then my hands are on bare skin, hot and smooth and mine. She's already working at my belt, her fingers fumbling with the buckle, and I help her, shoving my pants down while she strips out of the rest of her clothes.
When I lift her, her legs wrap around my waist automatically, and I pin her against the wall. She's already wet, already ready, and the knowledge makes something primal roar to life in my chest.
I push inside her in one brutal thrust, and she cries out, her nails digging into my shoulders. No gentleness. No tenderness. Just raw need and anger and something darker that neither of us wants to name.
She meets me thrust for thrust, her hips rolling against mine with a violence that matches my own. Her teeth find my shoulder, biting down hard enough to break skin, and I hiss, driving into her harder. Deeper.
Then she breaks the kiss, her hand fisting in my hair and yanking my head back. Her eyes are wild, furious, burning with something that looks like hatred and hunger all at once.
She shoves at my chest. Hard. I stumble back, and she pushes again, driving me toward the bed until the backs of my knees hit the mattress and I fall.
Before I can move, she's on me, straddling my hips, her hands pinning my wrists on either side of my head. Her hair falls around her face like a curtain, and her eyes are fierce, demanding, taking.
I could flip her, could pin her down and take back control in a heartbeat. But I don't.
Because I understand what this is. What she needs.
Everything in her life is out of control. This is the only power she has left. The only choice that's hers. Or at least that's how she feels. If she'd just calm down long enough, she'd see that she'll have a lot more freedom than she thinks… once I can secure her safety.
So I let her take it.
She rises up on her knees, positions herself over me, and sinks down in one smooth motion. Her head falls back, her throat exposed, and she releases her hold on my wrists. Fuck, I want to grab her hips and guide her, but I don't. I don't control the pace. Instead, I let her have her way, but God it's driving me crazy seeing her like this. My balls ache with the need to come and it's all I can do to hold on, to wait until she finds her pleasure first.
The heat of her is overwhelming. The tight clench of her body around mine. The way she moves like she's trying to punish us both.
She rides me hard, brutal, her nails raking down my chest, nearly drawing blood. I hiss but don't stop her. Let her mark me. Claim me. Punish me.
Holy fuck, she's magnificent like this! The image of her fiercely riding me, taking control, will forever be burned in my memory. I'm sure I'll have plenty of nights lying in bed, fisting myself while remembering this moment.
My dick throbs and I take a deep breath, trying my best to keep from ending this before she finds her release. But damn it, it's almost impossible. I can no longer remain docile beneath her. I grab her hips and help her move, and she moans loudly as my help sends me deeper inside her.
She leans forward, her hands braced on my chest. The angle changes. Deeper. Harder. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, hot against my face, and I feel her tightening around me, feel her climbing toward the edge.
