He gives me something worse.
Focus.
I don’t answer. I just act.
I step between his knees and sink into his lap.
His body goes still beneath me.
Rock solid. Warm.
His breath catches against my hair.
For one heartbeat, he doesn’t touch me.
Then his hands come up, firm at my waist, anchoring me like he’s decided I’m not falling tonight.
I press my mouth close to his ear, voice trembling.
“Please,” I whisper. “Pretend I’m yours. Your woman.”
His reply is so quiet it’s almost a growl, meant for me and me alone.
“Are you sure?” His grip tightens, just enough to make the question feel like a promise. “Because if I say you’re my woman… I’ll have to mean it.”
My eyes sting. My chest aches. The footsteps behind me stop, close enough that my skin prickles.
I nod once, sharp and desperate.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”
His hand slides up from my waist to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair like he’s found something he refuses to let go of. He tilts my face up, slow, giving me one last second to pull away.
I don’t.
The world narrows to his eyes, to the heat of his palm, to the steady strength under me.
Then his mouth covers mine, claiming it.
A deep, hungry kiss that steals the air from my lungs and turns my fear into something molten. His lips move like he’s done this a thousand times, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and my body reacts like it’s been waiting for him anyway.
My hands clutch at his shoulders, at the hard leather of his cut, because I need something solid.
Because he is solid.
He angles the kiss, and I feel his grip tighten at my waist, holding me in place like he’s shielding me from the entire room.
Somewhere behind me, I hear a chair scrape.
A voice.
But it fades under the rush of my pulse and the shock of want blooming hot in my chest.
He breaks the kiss just enough to breathe against my mouth, his voice a rough whisper meant only for me.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Now stay right here.”
And then he kisses me again.
