Possessive.
Perfect.
His mouth moves over mine like he’s imprinting himself on my lips, like he’s relearning a language he’s been forbidden to speak, tasting, feeding off all my fantasies, all my dark secrets of him. His kiss isn’t gentle, it’s restrained, anchored by control that threatens to snap with every careful stroke of his tongue, every soft bite on my bottom lip. He kisses me like he’s breaking something open, something forbidden, something desperate, and pouring himself inside.
His tongue slips past my lips with a groan that vibrates through my entire body, lighting my blood on fire. He kisses me slowly, deliberately, exploring every corner of my mouth, savoring every quiet gasp, every needy whimper. He tastes intoxicating, like whiskey sipped straight from the bottle, burning and addictive, impossible to quit. Every stroke of his tongue, every careful scrape of teeth against my lip drags me further beneath him, until I’m drowning willingly in the wet heat of his breath, in the rough glide of his mouth. There’s no rush, no roughness, only the unbearable ache of surrender as he takes his time tasting me, drowning me, making me forget everything but him.
And then his hands move, cupping my jaw, thumbs stroking gently over my skin as he deepens the kiss, presses closer, closer, until there’s nothing left between us but that damn towel and my crumbling pride.
My fists tighten desperately in the cotton at his hips, holding on for dear life as my defenses shatter completely. His kiss is a threat whispered softly. Etching his name into my body one breath at a time. Reminding me who I let inside me.
Who I still want inside me.
His lips move against mine like sin incarnate, slow, decadent, grinding my self-respect into dust. He bites gently at my bottom lip, then soothes it with his tongue, coaxing a whimper from me I don’t even try to stop.
Because I need this.
I need him.
When he finally pulls back, I’m wrecked. Gasping. Barely upright. My lips are swollen, wet, ruined from his mouth, my panties soaked through from a kiss that shouldn’t have gone anywhere near that deep. He doesn’t move far. Just enough to look down at me, really look, like he’s proud of how undone I am.
“I’ve missed you too, Muñequita,” he murmurs, low and guttural, the kind of sound that doesn’t just reach your ears, it sinks into your bones, steadies things you didn’t even realize were splintering.
But then he speaks again.
And this time his voice is coiled tight with threat and hunger, wrapping around my throat like a promise I’m not sure I’ll survive.
“But if you show up again wearing his ring, Camille…” He leans closer, mouth brushing mine, a featherlight caress with a razor-sharp edge, every syllable electric, “I’ll buy a billboard right outside his window, show him and the whole fucking city exactly how pretty you look when I’m buried deep inside you.”
My pulse pounds so hard I can barely think straight.
And all I can think is… God help me, I want it.
“Take. It. Off.”
I don’t speak.
Don’t argue.
Don’t breathe.
I just stare up at him, breath coming in short, uneven bursts, heart pounding like it’s trying to tear through my ribs. My thighs clench around nothing, aching, desperate. My fingers tremble at my sides, useless against the pull of him. Every molecule of air between us crackles, thick, charged, suffocating with heat and hunger.
I feel him everywhere.
His body heat. His scent. That possessive, violent stillness in the way he watches me like he’s seconds from tearing me apart if I don’t give him what he wants.
Take it off.
The command echoes in my head like a drumbeat.
I look down at the ring on my finger. Gleaming. Heavy. Cold.
Preston’s promise.
My cage.
And Kane, he’s watching it like it’s something vile. Like it’s contamination on something that belongs to him.
