He doesn’t give me time to recover. Doesn’t give me time to think.
He grips the hem of my silk slip and lifts it in one brutal motion, over my hips, my ribs, off my arms. I raise them without question, letting the silk whisper off my skin and fall to the floor like an offering.
He takes one step back.
Let’s his gaze drag over my body like a man made to conquer.
“Turn around,” he murmurs.
I do.
His hands find my waist, fingers digging in like he needs proof I’m not going to vanish. He bends to press his mouth to the nape of my neck, teeth grazing my skin before he bites. Just enough to leave a mark. Just enough to make me gasp.
I lean into him, already shaking.
His hands slide around to cup my breasts from behind, thumbs brushing across my nipples until they harden under his touch. My head falls back against his shoulder, and I moan.
He spins me around without warning.
Lifts me by the waist with little effort, his hands bruising in their grip, and turns toward the table.
That heavy, carved wood thing he always uses to plan wars and deliver orders.
Tonight, he’ll use it to wreck me.
He sets me down on the edge, the cool surface shocking against the back of my thighs. My breath stutters, but I don’t move, not even when his hands trail from my hips to the small ofmy back, firm and unforgiving.
“Stand up and bend,” he says.
My breath catches.
I obey.
I lower forward until my chest touches the table, palms flattening against the cool wood.
But he’s not done with me yet.
He grabs both my wrists, gathers them behind me in one of his hands, and pins them there. My back arches instinctively, spine straining, exposed.
The position is primal. Controlled. His.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, pressing his body flush to mine from behind. “All that fire in you… and still, you bend for me.”
I can feel him, hard and thick, grinding against my ass, still clothed, still holding back. Barely.
“You always want to fight,” he growls, dragging his free hand up the inside of my thigh. “But you break so fucking beautifully.”
His fingers find me, wet, throbbing, and he groans low in his throat.
“Dripping,” he mutters. “You want it like this?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “God, yes.”
He frees himself, and I feel the blunt heat of him pressing against me, thick, heavy, unrelenting.
“I should make you beg,” he says, lining up.
“You already know I would,” I whisper.
