“You don’t have to say anything.”
His hand slides lower, settling at the curve where my back turns into my hip. Heat sparks through me again.
Then he tips my face up with two fingers under my chin.
“You keep looking at me like I’m about to tell you this was a mistake.”
I go very still.
He sees too much.
“It wasn’t,” he says.
Something deep inside me gives a little at that.
His eyes darken as he watches it happen.
“You hear me, angel?”
“Yes.”
“That means you stop making up stories in that head of yours.” His thumb brushes my jaw. “About this. About what I want.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
His gaze never leaves mine.
“I want you in my bed.”
My breath catches.
“I want my hands on you.”
The words land lower.
“I want to hear you say my name like you did a little while ago until I can’t think straight.”
My thighs press together before I can stop them.
His eyes flick down, catch it, and go darker.
Then his hand slides to my throat, rough and light and claiming all at once.
“You’re mine now, angel.”
The words go through me like fire.
They should make me flinch.
Instead they settle somewhere so deep it leaves me shaky.
I stare at him.
He keeps looking at me like he means every word.
“When I’m done with you,” he says, voice rough as gravel, “there won’t be a damn question who you belong to.”
A quiet, helpless sound slips out of me.
