My body surges forward, pressing into hers until the chair becomes her only refuge and her prison. Her breath hitches, sharp and shaky, as my frame boxes her in, heat bleeding from my skin to hers. She can't look away, can't even blink, and I don't let her—not when every part of me is screaming to show her exactly what it means to be claimed.
"Do you think anyone else will touch you like I did? Know you like I do?"
"You don't know me," she says, voice brittle.
I lower my head, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"I know what your moans sound like when you come with my tongue in you. I know how you bite your lip to keep fromwhimpering. I know your body wants what your pride won't let you say."
She shivers, the tremor rippling down her spine like a current she can't control. My gaze locks on the delicate flutter at her throat, the rapid thrum of her pulse betraying everything her lips won't say. It leaps beneath my fingers like a trapped bird, wild and wanting, and I swear I can feel its rhythm sync with the dark hunger rising in me, demanding more, daring me to push until she breaks again.
"You're demented," she whispers.
"No. I'm certain."
I draw back just enough to meet her gaze head-on. Her pupils are blown wide, shimmering with unshed questions—fear tangled with need, resistance laced with longing. Her breath catches, and in that fragile pause, I see it all: the war inside her, the flicker of submission she can't quite smother. Her eyes, dark and shining, tear through me with their beautiful contradiction.
My voice drops to a graveled purr, thick with command and carnal promise. Each word vibrates with possessive heat, like smoke coiling over iron—seductive, lethal, impossible to escape.
"Next time, I'll make you beg."
I lift her from the chair in one fluid, claiming motion, the raw strength in my arms forcing a gasp from her lips as I toss her over my shoulder. Her fists slam against my back, not in resistance, but in protest laced with arousal. The impact is a staccato rhythm that does nothing to deter me, only deepens the growl rumbling in my chest. Her heat seeps into me, scorching through the thin barrier of my clothes as I stalk forward with her caged in my grip, every step a promise of what's coming next.
"Put me down!"
"Not until you understand what it means to be mine."
9
CARYN
The door slams behind him, sharp and final. I jump, spine stiffening, heart already off to the races before I see the look on his face. A rush of dread blooms in my chest, echoing an old panic that once kept me up nights in a locked apartment with a knife tucked beneath my pillow. Back then, danger felt like a faceless shadow. Now, it has a name.
Zeb.
His eyes burn with something primal—rage, yes, but also something deeper. Older. It rolls off him in waves, a dark pulse of energy that sets every nerve on edge. Not fear, exactly. Anticipation. Maybe both. The same twisted thrill that once chased me through crime scenes and backroom interrogations is back now, coiling low in my belly, indistinguishable from desire.
He carries me into the bedroom and sets me on the edge of the bed with a control that makes my pulse stumble. His grip lingers, hot and deliberate, branding my skin like ownership I never agreed to but can’t shake. My breath stutters, chest tight with a protest I can’t quite voice. Conflict claws through me—part of me wants to bolt, part of me wants to see what happens if I stay.
I jerk back, heart hammering, breath unsteady as instinct tells me to flee from the intensity in his stare. My spine locks tight, my body taut with defiance, but I don’t move. Not yet. It isn’t distance I’m fighting for—it’s control. And deep down, I know I’ve already lost it.
He doesn’t follow, not immediately. He gives me just enough room to feel the tension knot tighter in my gut, a trap poised—armed, trembling, ready to snap shut. My nerves buzz, my skin prickling with the weight of his restraint.
He begins to unbutton his shirt, each movement slow and deliberate—almost predatory. My eyes lock onto his fingers, watching the fabric part like a curtain unveiling something forbidden. The slide of skin, the flex of muscle, each new inch exposed makes my throat tighten and my knees weaken. I suck in a breath, ragged and shallow, the sound loud in the thick silence between us. Shame curls low in my stomach, hot and twisted, at the sheer depth of want flooding through me. I swore I wouldn't give in again—but my body’s already breaking that vow, inch by aching inch.
When he closes on me, I expect him to press me down. Instead, he drops to his knees in front of me. The sight punches the air from my lungs—reverence and danger wrapped into one man. His gaze drags up my thighs, igniting a tremor I can’t hide. His mouth brushes the inside of my knee, soft and claiming, then higher, firmer, until my breathing stumbles out of rhythm. My thighs twitch, instinct and need tangled so tight I can’t tell one from the other.
His hands slide under my flannel, palms searing into the curve of my hips. My muscles tighten, a reflex of resistance—but instead of pulling away, I lean toward him. Just enough to betray myself. Just enough to surrender an inch I swore I wouldn’t. His thumbs circle slow, coaxing me closer, deeper into the place where resistance is already dying.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he growls, “but you’re about to find out.”
My eyebrows lift, a shaky laugh caught in my throat. “What are you doing?”
His eyes flash up, dark and feral. “Marking you.”
Heat slams through me. My legs clamp shut, but he forces them apart with a strength I can’t fight. Shame and desire collide when his growl rumbles against my inner thigh, vibrating through me like a brand. He drags his nose along the sensitive seam, inhaling me as if my scent is his to keep. His breath ghosts over the thin scrap of fabric between us, and I shiver, trembling with the raw truth of how badly I want him.
“Zeb…” My voice breaks on his name.
