Elio.
He must have followed me when I disappeared into the maze.
"Violet." His voice carries over the hedge tops, sending a shiver down my spine.
He knows I can hear him.
I don't answer, covering my mouth to trap the giggle threatening to break.
"Violet," he singsongs in a tone that edges on sinister. "You want to play games?"
Yet a swarm of butterflies takes off in my belly as heat spreads through me. The giggle dies down instantly as I lick my lips.
I take a step away from his voice, as quietly as I can, looking around frantically, as my pulse kicks into another level.
Elio steps into the path behind me, his face lit by the soft moonlight. A possessive smile dances on his handsome face as he takes a step toward me. "Run, tesoro."
I do.
Without thinking, I let my feet take me deeper into the maze, gravel spraying under my feet. My breath is coming quick, but not from effort. From want. From the adrenaline already converting to heat between my thighs.
I take a turn. Then another. Wrong ones. Dead ends that open into new corridors that twist back on themselves. I'm not trying to solve it. I'm not trying to escape.
Behind me, his footsteps change.
He was walking. Now he's not. His stride has gone from measured to hunting.
He's faster. Closer.
I take another turn and hit a dead end. Hedge wall on three sides. Moonlight pooling through the leaves in broken silver.
I spin.
He's there. At the opening of the dead end. Not running anymore. Walking. Taking his time now that I'm cornered. His chest rises and falls under a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and those dark eyes are fixed on me in the half-light, making every rational thought I've ever had pack a bag and leave.
"Found you." The half-smile he gives me is crazed at the edges, eyes black in the moonlight, suit jacket already gone somewhere between the last turn and here. The look alone soaks me. My panties are useless, clinging wet against me, thighs slick before he even touches me.
I don't wait.
I meet him halfway, fists in his shirt, yanking him down as my mouth crashes into his. It's not a kiss. It's teeth and tongue and the sharp taste of espresso and smoke and the low, broken sound he makes against my lips that vibrates straight to my clit. My hands tear at his shirt, buttons pop, linen rips, I don't care. His are on my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing, my legs wrapping around him in the same breath. My back slams intothe hedge wall, branches jabbing through thin cotton, thorns catching skin, and I arch harder into him because the sting only makes me wetter.
I can feel him, thick and rigid, pressing against my soaked center through his trousers and my useless panties. The friction alone has me grinding down, shameless, chasing more. He groans into my mouth, one hand sliding under my ass, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise. I want every mark. Want them to bloom purple on my thighs by morning so I can press my fingers into them later and remember this exact second when he finally caught me.
"Off," I gasp against his lips, reaching between us.
He doesn't hesitate. One quick yank and his belt is gone, fly open, cock freed—hot and heavy against my inner thigh. I shove my panties aside, no patience for finesse, and line him up. He thrusts once, hard, deep, without preamble, and the stretch burns so good my head falls back against the hedge.
"Fuck—" The word rips out of me, half moan, half curse.
He pins me, one arm braced beside my head, the other locked under my ass, and fucks me against the living wall like he means to imprint me into it. Leaves rain down with every thrust, branches snapping, thorns scraping my shoulders, my thighs. I don't care. I roll my hips to meet him, taking him deeper, harder, the wet slap of skin loud in the night air. My nails rake down his back through the ruined shirt, feeling muscle shift and flex under my hands.
He bites my neck, hard enough to mark, not hard enough to break skin—and I clench around him so tight he groans my name. "Violet?—"
I bite his shoulder in return, through linen and skin, tasting salt and him. His rhythm falters for a second, hips stuttering, then he drives even deeper, hitting that spot that makes my vision white out.
Branches dig into my spine as my head tips back. His mouth finds my throat again—teeth, tongue, sucking hard enough to bruise. I arch, offering more, needing more, chasing the edge that's already so fucking close.
"Harder," I demand against his ear.
