I want to ride him into the sunset.
What doesn’t he get?
I’m walking around this villa in thin sundresses, in shorts so small they barely qualify as clothing, in tops that are basically bras because it’s Panama and hot as hell—yet he still hasn’t taken me down.
So now the only solace I have is my book.
A dark, brutal little romance full of obsession and sharp teeth—open in my lap like a lifeline.
Only, I’ve been staring at the same paragraph for over an hour because I can’t focus on anything except the fact that the real thing is sitting in the same villa, and I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.
I keep thinking about the way he pressed me against the kitchen counter, about the scrape of his teeth against my mouth, about the weight of his hand closing around the back of my neck like he owned me. And how much I wanted him to.
My thighs press together helplessly. Heat pools low in my stomach, sharp and needy, and my fingers curl tighter on the book because if I don’t hold on to something, I might actually fall apart.
I’m not even reading anymore. I’m just picturing him, and the longer I sit here pretending to be calm, the more turned on I get. My pulse is climbing into my throat, and the sun feels too hot on my skin, sticky and slow, making me feel restless and feverish in my own body.
The table in the parlor, where he ruined me with nothing more than his hands and his mouth. The hallway, where he pinned me against the wall and kissed me until my legs nearly gave out.
On our wedding night, when he untied my corset so slowly I thought I might die from it, when the silk fell away from my shoulders and he breathed against my neck like he’d been starving for that moment for years.
My body remembers every single second, and it’s betraying me now—sitting here in a dream paradise, trying to focus on anything else, with heat coiling low in my stomach just from thinking about him.
My lips part, just slightly, and I find myself staring at the horizon without seeing it, the book heavy in my lap and a complete tease only adding the sexual tension rolling through me.
On the page, the heroine is running.
Running barefoot through the dark woods, lungs burning, heart clawing at her ribs as if it’s trying to escape before she can. Her breath tears out of her throat in short, panicked bursts, and still she runs, because she knows he’s behind her. She can feel him. Every branch that snaps, every whisper of leaves feels like a hand closing around her.
She’s fast. She’s clever. She has a head start.
But he’s relentless.
And there’s a moment—just one—when she stumbles, catching herself on her palms, the earth cold and damp beneath her fingers, and she knows it’s over. She can hear him closing in, steady and sure, not even breathing hard.
And when he finally catches her, when his body slams into hers from behind and she hits the ground, there’s no gentleness in it. He pins her there, dragging her against him with a hand over her racing heart, and he doesn’t say a word. He just takes it.
It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s raw, and messy, and it feels like being devoured alive.
And as I stare at the page, at that wild, breathless surrender, something sharp and low and desperate coils inside me.
I want that.
I didn’t think twenty-four hours of our honeymoon would pass without him taking me—without him claiming me in a way thatleaves no room for questions. And now all I can think about is the weight of him pressing me into this floor, the sound of his breath in my ear, his hands on me like there’s no escape and no part of me that isn’t his.
I want to stop pretending that my body doesn’t belong to him.
I want to be caught.
I want to be claimed.
And the worst part?
Aleksandr’s sitting across from me in one of the low, wide chairs in the villa’s sunlit living room, long legs stretched out, an open book resting casually in his big hands. A book I gave him. His head is bent, damp hair curling at the ends, a thin white T-shirt pulled across his shoulders, the sleeves rolled high on his forearms. Even relaxed, he looks like a threat.
And of course, I’m staring.
I’m deep into a chapter when my eyes snag on a line, a description so filthy and intense that it drags a shocked gasp out of me before I can stop it.
