“Stop,” she breathes.
I don’t. My mouth closes over the mark, a gentle suction that makes her hips press back against my cock, which is already stone hard. I suckle the wound, cleaning it, claiming it, branding it again with my mouth. “It’s mine,” I murmur against her skin. “This mark is mine. This neck is mine. You are mine.”
Her head falls back against my shoulder. Her eyes close. “I hate you.”
“I know.” I turn her in my arms, lift her effortlessly, and set her on the counter. Her legs part to make room for me between them. The position is intimate. Dominant. Her, elevated. Me, grounded, owning the space between her thighs.
I look from the mark on her neck, to her mouth, still swollen from my kisses, to her eyes, which are dark with a war she is losing.
“This changes everything,” I say. It's not a threat. It's a fact.
“It changes nothing,” she counters, but her voice is a thread. Her hands are flat on my chest, not pushing me away, just resting there. Feeling my heart hammer against her palms.
“Then why aren't you pushing me away?” I lean in, my mouth hovering an inch from hers. “Why does your body fit mine like it was made to?”
I press my hips forward, a slow, deliberate roll that makes her gasp. Her scent spikes—slick and sweet. Need.
“This is just animal instinct,” she whispers, the words from before, but they sound like a prayer now. A desperate plea.
“Then let’s be animals a little longer.” My mouth closes over hers.
