"You can't. Because you want this too."
When she lunges, I think she's going to strike again. Instead, she grabs both sides of my face and kisses me—all teeth and fury, like she wants to devour the shame out of both of us. Her hands tangle in my hair, her legs wrap around my waist, and everything else falls away.
I grip her thighs, my fingers digging in with bruising possession, dragging her to the edge of the cushions like prey offered to a god. Her skin burns under my touch, slick with heat and shivering tension. Her thighs quake as I wedge myself between them, claiming space she hasn’t consciously offered—but hasn’t truly denied. She gasps, broken and desperate, caught between panic and anticipation, like she’s on the cusp of begging or running, unable to choose which edge to leap from. The moment stretches, heavy and unyielding; every breath between us a battle neither of us intends to lose.
The fabric between us is saturated with her heat, clinging and wet against my jeans, the scent of her—raw and intoxicating—curling into my lungs like smoke from a wildfire I haveno intention of putting out. My cock throbs, achingly hard, straining against the denim as the pressure builds to a dangerous edge. I grind against her with deliberate control, a slow, relentless drag that has her hips jerking toward mine, a gasp ripped from her throat.
Her lashes flutter, lips parting on a whimper, and her body arches—seeking friction, caught helplessly in that tightrope walk between resistance and surrender. She’s trembling beneath me, her skin fevered, pupils blown wide with a need she refuses to name—but her body begs for more, and I’m the only one who can give it.
"Still want me to stop?" I ask, my voice low and dominant.
She responds by biting my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "Do your worst, mountain man."
I lift her shirt slowly, deliberately, exposing inch after inch of flushed skin until her bare chest is fully revealed. Her muscles twitch beneath my gaze, taut with tension and anticipation. The cool air hits her nipples, drawing them into tight, aching peaks that beg for attention. I don't rush. I watch her breathe, her chest rising and falling with a helpless rhythm, and then I dip my head.
I bite one nipple just hard enough to make her jolt—pain and pleasure fused into a gasp. My tongue flicks over the other, teasing, circling, pressing until she moans my name like a prayer torn from her throat. She arches into my mouth, writhing beneath me, her body a battleground of resistance and surrender. Every sound she makes feeds the beast inside me, sharpening the edge of what’s to come.
I secure her wrists once more—not because she struggles, but because the act itself binds more than flesh. It roots us in the raw truth neither of us wants to name. She’s given herself over in instinct and breath, in moans and silence, and I need her tofeelit—need her to know she’s no longer untethered. That everyheartbeat, every shiver, every whimper that spills from her is mine to provoke and mine to claim.
My mouth moves lower, my tongue tracing the ridge of muscle along her abdomen, savoring the salt and softness of her skin. Her moan is sharp, guttural—less a sound than a surrender. Her hips jerk up, desperate and demanding, a silent plea I have no intention of ignoring.
With a growl vibrating low in my chest, I hook my fingers into the delicate band of her panties, the fabric surrendering with a satisfying rip as I tear them down her legs. Her gasp is half shock, half anticipation. The air kisses her bare skin, and her thighs quake slightly under my gaze.
I press a kiss just above the juncture of her thighs, breathing in the wet heat radiating off her before letting my lips part, sliding down to taste her with slow, decadent hunger. She cries out, a strangled, broken sound that spears straight through me. Her body writhes, slick and needy, and I pin her with the weight of my forearms as my tongue delves deeper, savoring every trembling response, every helpless gasp.
I see it in the tremble of her thighs, the way her breath stutters. She’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous, and every instinct in me swears she wants me as much as I want her.
She lies sprawled before me now—exposed, breath shallow, nipples taut, a flush climbing her chest like wildfire. Vulnerable, yes, but it’s the tremble that gives her away. Not from cold. From knowing exactly what's coming.
"Spread your legs wide," I command.
She hesitates for a moment, and I raise my eyebrow in a silent challenge. She complies.
I lower my head between her thighs, the scent of her slick heat wrapping around me like a drug. My tongue drags up her center—slow, rough strokes that make her hips buck anda strangled moan tear from her throat. Her taste is dark, intoxicating, a flavor I want to drown in. Her thighs quake, twitching as her body reacts faster than her pride wants to allow.
When she tries to clamp her legs closed, I growl low in warning and force them open with my shoulders, locking her down. "No," I snarl against her soaked skin. "You take this. You feel every second of it."
I drag her closer to the edge with every calculated flick of my tongue, every dark stroke that coaxes her body into trembling submission. Just as her muscles seize and her cry climbs her throat, I retreat—leaving her hips bucking, her thighs clenching, her voice breaking in frustration. Again and again, I bring her to that brutal brink, only to deny her the fall, savoring each desperate curse, every breathless plea, until she's writhing, eyes wild, lost in a haze of torment and need.
Then, without warning, I lift her into my arms and carry her towards the bed—ready to push each other to even greater heights of pleasure.
"I’m not going to fuck you," I growl.
She gasps, confused. "What? Then what the hell was that?"
I grin. Dark. Dangerous.
“That was me showing you what it means when I say you’re mine.”
She stares up at me, eyes glassy with confusion, arousal, shame, and something deeper.
Her taste still clings to my tongue. She’s trembling, wide-eyed, silent. I don’t need her words. I already know how this ends.
7
CARYN
Idon't sleep. Not really. Not after what he did. Every time I close my eyes, it replays in flashes—his mouth on mine, my body arching against his, his voice rasping in my ear like gravel and sin. The sheets are warm but feel like shackles, heavy with his scent. My breath stutters every time I move, reliving the weight of him pressing me down, pinning me in place. There's heat in my blood that won't burn off, no matter how far I pull the blanket up or how hard I try to forget the way his hands mapped me like he already owned every inch.
