We stand inches apart, chests rising and falling in rhythm, the anger that’s been building for weeks finally cresting into something neither of us can control.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“I know.” His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about this moment. “Hate me all you want. You’re still mine.”
The possessiveness should make me pull away. Should remind me that this man let Ethan die, that he’s kept me prisoner, that marrying him was survival strategy rather than choice.
When his thumb traces my lower lip, my mouth parts and heat floods through me so intensely that rational thought dissolves.
Felix’s eyes darken. His other hand slides to my waist, fingers spreading across the curve there with familiar possession that makes my pulse spike.
“Tell me to fuck off, and I will,” he says quietly, giving me one last exit.
I should take it. Instead, I grab his shirt and pull him down into a kiss that’s more collision than tenderness.
Felix makes a sound low in his throat and takes control immediately, backing me toward the bedroom door while his hands map my body with the same intensity he brings to everything.
The door opens behind me and we stumble through, mouths still locked together, hands already working at clothing that’s suddenly unbearable.
He breaks the kiss long enough to pull my sweater over my head, tossing it aside before his mouth finds my throat. I arch into the contact, fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt until frustration makes me yank hard enough that one pops free and skitters across the floor.
“Impatient,” he murmurs against my collarbone, teeth grazing skin that’s hypersensitive.
“Shut up.” I shove the shirt off his shoulders, finally getting my hands on bare skin I’ve been imagining since that night against the wall.
He’s solid muscle beneath my palms, warm and real in ways that make the desire sharper. I trace the lines of his chest and stomach, learning the texture of him while his hands work at the fastening of my jeans.
The denim slides down my hips, and I step out of it clumsily, kicking the fabric aside. Felix’s gaze rakes over me standing in just my bra and underwear, and the hunger in his expression makes me feel powerful despite the vulnerability.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks, voice rough.
Instead of answering with words, I reach behind and unhook my bra, letting it fall to the floor between us.
His control fractures visibly. He pulls me against him, skin to skin, and the contact sends sensation racing through every nerve. His mouth finds mine again while his hands explore freely—cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over nipples that harden instantly, then sliding down to grip my hips and pull me flush against the evidence of how much he wants this.
We stumble toward the bed, still kissing, his hands mapping the soft curves of my body with touches that feel possessive and reverent in equal measure. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I fall backward and he follows me down, bracing himself on his forearms to keep from crushing me.
“Tell me what you need,” he says, mouth working down my throat toward my breasts.
“I don’t know.” The words cut off when his lips close around one nipple, tongue circling before he sucks hard enough to make me gasp. “You.”
“That’s a start.” He gives the other breast the same attention, teeth grazing gently before soothing with his tongue. “I need you to use words, Diana. Tell me what feels good.”
The request strips away the last pretense of detachment. “That. More of that.”
He complies, working my breasts with his mouth while one hand slides down my stomach to the waistband of myunderwear. He pauses there, fingers tracing the edge without dipping beneath.
“Can I touch you?” The question is quiet, giving me control even as his body presses me into the mattress.
“Yes.” The word comes out breathless, desperate.
His hand slides beneath the fabric, finding wetness that makes him curse against my breast. “You’re soaked.”
Embarrassment flares hot, but he doesn’t give me time to retreat. His fingers explore carefully, learning what makes my breath catch and my hips roll seeking more pressure. When he finds the spot that sends pleasure spiking sharp, he focuses there with the same methodical attention he brings to everything.
The sensation builds fast, overwhelming in its intensity. I grab his shoulders for stability, nails digging into muscle as he works me higher with touches that feel deliberate and consuming.
“Let go,” he murmurs. “I want to feel you come apart.”
