Page 73

He chuckles and barely moves. My heel catches his shin instead, useless, and he only shifts closer, absorbing the movement like he expected it, like he wanted it.

I keep my mouth shut, drag in what little breath I can, and refuse to give him anything else. Most certainly not the truth. Because even as my body keeps betraying me, straining against him, chest brushing his with every uneven breath, heat bleeding through both of us in a way I hate…

I hate that part of me doesn't want to move.

"You went there for a reason," he continues, and his thumb shifts against my wrist, testing, feeling the spike of my pulse, tracking it like it's something he's already claimed. "You don't just wander into that part of the city in the middle of the night."

Something in his voice makes my stomach tighten, because he isn't guessing anymore. He's waiting for me to admit the part he already knows matters.

"Let—go—" I force out, breath hitching, the words broken, thinner than I want them to be as I twist again, trying to wrench my arms free. When it doesn't work, I go still, jaw locking as my breath breaks unevenly against his hand, my chest rising harder with every second he keeps me there.

He watches me, really watches me—the resistance, the breath, the way my body refuses to settle—and then he steps closer, closing the last of the distance between us and pressing me fully back into the wall.

My back hits stone again as his body follows, heat pressing through damp fabric and skin that hasn't cooled since the pool, leaving me with nothing but the weight of him and the way he keeps me exactly where he wants me.

"Look at me."

His fingers hook under my chin and force the movement, tipping my head back until my gaze snaps to his. It's a mistake. His eyes are darker now, focused, like whatever line was there before is already gone.

"There you are," he murmurs.

"I'm not telling you anything," I manage, though my breath is still uneven, my body still too aware of every point where we're touching.

His mouth shifts, not quite a smile but something slower, more deliberate, like he already knows how this ends. "Yeah. I figured."

Then he leans in.

I should turn my head. Fight it. I should do anything but what I do, which is lift my chin that last fraction and meet him halfway before I can stop myself, before I can pretend I didn't want it.

I feel the shift in my own body, the way my pride is being dismantled by the simple, terrifying fact that my cock hardens against him. My mind screams for a retreat that my knees won't provide, my body choosing the heat of him over pulling free.

His grip loosens at my throat just enough for me to drag in a breath. My lips part on instinct, my chest pulling in air like I've been starved for it.

Then his mouth is on mine. He kisses me hard enough to steal the next breath from my lungs, tilting my head back and setting the pace before I can think about stopping him.

For one stunned second, I freeze. And then I kiss him back.

Light, I hate that I do.

My hands are still pinned above my head, my body trapped against his, breath still uneven, and instead of pulling away, I lean into him, into the heat and pressure of his body, into the terrifying relief of not fighting for one second.

"Fuck… little mouse," Ciaran murmurs against my mouth. "You taste too good."

"Don't," I snap, breath catching, but it falls apart halfway through.

He takes the opening, pushing back in, and before I even realize what I'm doing, I'm arching into him, chasing the friction. My chest presses against his, and his hands fist in my shirt like he can't get me close enough. Our hips collide, knocking the breath out of me as his weight pins me to the stone.

I moan, and Ciaran reacts instantly, his grip tightening just enough to keep me where he wants me while his mouth takes what it wants. He swallows the sound, his teeth catching my lower lip in a sharp, stinging reminder of who's in control, and the low rumble in his chest tells me he feels every shift in me. Every time I try to move, he adjusts, crowding closer until I stop thinking and just react under his hands.

I try to pull away. I think I do. But it's weak, too late, nothing against the way he controls the pace of it, the breath I can't quite catch. I'm caught somewhere between fighting him and leaning into him, hating how close those things have become, how easily one slips into the other. It feels like impact, like something breaking open inside me, until I don't know what I'm trying to do anymore except stay upright under it.

I want to push him off and drag him closer in the same breath. My control slips another inch, leaving me unsteady in his grip as I realize I'm no longer pulling away so much as failing to.

His grip on my jaw tightens. He hooks his leg between mine, forcing my thighs apart, pressing his hips into me until I am pinned completely, until there is nowhere left to go.

The difference between us presses in from every side, his body locking mine in place, forcing me to feel it, to recognize exactly who is in control.

I am shaking. My pulse jumps hard against my wrist, too fast, and the heat of him closes in around me.