“For making me chase you just to keep you safe.”
I should be furious. I should be screaming, demanding he stop. But I'm… not.
Each smack sends heat sparking through me. Warmth pools in my core and makes me press my thighs together instinctively.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“This is for putting yourself in danger when I'm trying to keep you safe.” His hand comes down harder, and I gasp.
I can't justtakethis.
“I didn't—” My voice comes out breathless, unfamiliar. “I don't need you to keep me safe.”
“Yes, you do, lass. You do.”
Another smack.
Another.
“And that's for saying another comment about your weight. Did Ilooklike I couldn't handle you?”
No, no, he didn't.
My skin's on fire, hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive and electric. I'm acutely aware of his hard thighs beneath me, my soft belly pressed over the edge of his knee, the warmth of his large hand against my burning skin. The way my body responds to something it absolutely should not be responding to.
This is wrong. So fucking wrong.
So why am I arching into the next strike?
His hand stills, resting on my burning arse, as he grips the heated flesh possessively. It's painful and perfect all at once, and I hate him for it.
“Never again,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Do you understand me, Bianca? Never fucking again. Nomore shite comments about your size when you're fucking perfect. And no more running.”
I should tell him to go to hell. But when I try to speak, all that comes out is a whimper.
His hand tightens on my arse, possessive and claiming. Then he shifts me, turning me until I'm straddling his lap, and his eyes are so dark, the pupils blown wide with something that looks like hunger.
“You've no goddamn idea”—he exhales—“what you do to me.”
He pushes my hair off my forehead with surprising gentleness, tucks it behind my ear, and cups my jaw with his calloused palm.
“You're so beautiful. Such a bonnie, gorgeous woman.”
Then he leans in, and before I know what's happening, he's kissing me.
It's not gentle or sweet, but claiming. Consuming. His hands tangle in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it. His other hand grips my hip, holding me tight against him so I can feel every hard plane of his body.
I should pull away. I should claw at him or fight him.
But I don't.
My hands find his shoulders, his neck. His skin is hot under my fingers, scarred and rough. His pulse races beneath my palm, matching mine, beat for frantic beat.
I've never touched a man like him before. Never been touched by one. He's masculinity made flesh—dangerous and powerful—and somehow knows exactly the way I want to be touched, even when I don't understand it myself.
When his hand cups my jaw, I make a sound I don't recognize. He tastes like danger and whiskey and something dark that makes me want to throw every sane thought I've ever had right out that broken window.
His hand slides from my hip to my sore, burning arse—and squeezes. I gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, deepening the kiss. His tongue tangles with mine, our lips crushed together, pain and pleasure so intertwined I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
