The words cut through whatever she was about to say next. Her mouth closes, opens, and closes again.
“You let him touch you.”
“What? I didn’t?—”
I turn her body. One hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder, rotating her body so her back is against my chest and her palms are flat on the car door.
She lets out a startled squeak, and I lean down, my mouth beside her ear, my breath moving the loose strands of dark hair at her temple.
“Do you think anyone can touch you and walk away from it?”
She tries to speak. What comes out is broken, half-formed. “No — I?—”
Her body is trembling against mine.
Good.
My hands find the button of her jeans.
“What are you?—”
I don’t answer. The button comes free. The zipper follows.She’s breathing hard now, her ribs expanding against my chest, her hands still pressed flat against the car. We’re in the middle of a parking structure. The light is gray and industrial, and there is no one in sight.
My team cleared the perimeter before we arrived.
I push the jeans down over her hips. She inhales sharply.
“Someone could —”
“I don’t care.”
I press her forward, bending her over the hood. I feel her flinch, feel the way her body tightens and then softens.
My hand slides between her thighs.
Wetalready. Despite the fear. Despite the confusion. Despite Landon Webb.
I lean over her. My chest against her back, my mouth at the shell of her ear, and my hand between her legs where the heat is devastating.
“Always ready for me.” My voice is barely recognizable — low, rough, scraped raw by the thing I’m not naming. “Even here. Even now.”
She opens her mouth to respond as I push a finger inside her, and the words die. A small choke escapes. Her forehead drops to the hood. Her hands curl into fists against the metal.
“No one touches you,” I say against her neck. My lips brush skin, and she shivers — a full-body response, involuntary. “No one. Not him. Not anyone. Do you understand?”
She doesn’t answer. Her breathing is ragged, her body clenching around my finger, her hips making the smallest unconscious motion — pressing back, seeking more.
I add a second finger. Her spine arches.
“Promise me.”
Nothing.
Just breaths, moans, and the obscene sound of my hand working between her thighs.
“Elizabeth.” My voice drops. A command. The voice thatmakes men confess and soldiers obey, and that I have never, until this moment, used on her. “Promise me.”
“I promise.” Barely audible. A whisper that breaks in the middle. Her voice cracks on the second word.
