He pulls back first, breathing heavier now. “This changes things,” he says.
“It already has,” I reply.
He studies my face, then brushes his thumb across my lower lip.
For tonight, Vigo is finished. Torres & Vale are exposed. The cloned corridor is shut down. His lanes are clean again. And I’ve moved from analyst to something closer.
He trusts me, which is great since that was the mission. The problem is, it doesn’t feel like one anymore. The lines begin to blur as his mouth comes down on me again, and I cling to him like he is the one solid thing in a world that is dark and dizzy.
8
SAOIRSE
His hands map me with a certainty that leaves no room for doubt. One fist anchors deep in my hair, a blunt, heavy pressure that tilts my head back, exposing the line of my throat. When he kisses me, it’s a claim. He drinks the air from my lungs until my head swims, his tongue a slow, sure invasion that makes breathing feel like a distant, unnecessary luxury.
His other hand finds the small of my back in a commanding drag of skin against skin that sparks a low, insistent ache behind my ribs, turning my knees to water.
“Riley Quinn,” he murmurs on my mouth. “What are you?”
I can’t think, can’t form any words. All I know is I want this, him, us.
The edge of the table bites into my thighs as he crowds into my space, his heat a living thing. My body leans into every second. He leaves the wreckage of my lips to ghost down my throat, tasting the frantic jump of my pulse.
When his teeth graze the sensitive dip below my jaw, his breath hitches—a low, animal vibration that vibrates through my own bones.
“Rule one. Every time you’ll challenge me,” he murmurs, his voice a delicious friction against my skin, “you’ll end up exactly where we both know you belong.”
His palm spreads flat against my waist, his thumb tracing slow, agonizing circles that scatter my thoughts like ash. I reach for him, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to bridge the last of the distance. He allows it—but only just.
As the fabric parts, the rush of skin meeting skin is electric, a ripple of sensation that forces a gasp from my throat.
He catches my wrist, pinning it against the heavy, thudding beating of his heart. “Slow,” he warns, though the strain in his jaw tells a different story. He dips his head, his lips grazing the curve of my shoulder, the contact so light it’s agonizing. He lingers there, his breath hot through the thin lace of my lingerie, until I’m trembling, undone by the sheer proximity of him.
The room has vanished, replaced by the heavy, intoxicating scent of him—well-worn leather, woodsmoke, and a dark, sharpened hunger. His control is a frayed wire, snapping with the sound of my name. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him back to me, needing the wreck of him.
As his hand slides higher, skimming the razor’s edge between restraint and total ruin, the world narrows to the point of a needle.
He lifts his head, his eyes dark with a turbulent, unsteady heat. “You still think you’re the dangerous one?”
“I know I am,” I breathe, the lie vibrating between us.
His smile is a slow-burn promise—danger and surrender wrapped in a single look. When he catches my mouth again, there is no more room for games, only the sharp, beautiful violence of wanting.
I moan into his mouth as his hands move to the zipper at my back, the metal teeth parting with a whisper. The dress pools at my waist, held up by nothing but the pressure of his body against mine. He hooks his thumbs into the straps of my bra, sliding them slowly down my arms, his knuckles grazing my skin.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I do, and the heat in his gaze is almost physical. He unclasps the lace, letting it fall away. The cool breeze from an open window hits me for a second before his palms replace it, warm and heavy. He cups my breasts, his thumbs sweeping over the peaks until they’re aching and tight. I let out a broken sound, my head falling back against his shoulder.
“Is that what you wanted?” he asks, his mouth hovering just over my ear. “To see if I’d actually take what you’re offering?”
Before I can answer, his head dips. He takes one taut peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling in a dance that sends a jolt straight to my core. I cry out, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, trying to pull him closer and push him away all at once. He ignores my conflict, his teeth grazing me just enough to make me hiss, his hand sliding down to the small of my back to pull my hips flush against his.
The friction of his trousers against my bare skin is maddening.
“Please,” I breathe, the word catching in my throat.
“Please what?” He lifts his head, his lips glistening, a dark smirk tugging at his mouth. He moves his hand lower, his palm flat against my stomach, pushing down until his fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear. He doesn’t pull them down yet. He just lingers there.
