The question hangs between us, charged with possibility.
His hand slides from my face down to cup the back of my neck, his thumb pressing against my racing pulse. "Tell me, Quinn. What do you need?"
The smart answer would be space. Distance. Time to figure out my financial disaster without the complication of whatever this thing between us is becoming.
But I'm so tired of being smart. So tired of being careful and controlled and responsible. Right now, standing in the ruins of my carefully constructed life, I just want to feel something other than fear and grief and crushing inadequacy.
I want to feel alive.
"You," I breathe, and the word is barely out of my mouth before he's kissing me.
It's nothing like the desperate collision against the prep counter after the fire. That was all adrenaline and fury and built-up tension finally exploding. This is slower. Deeper. He kisses me like he's trying to memorize the taste of me, his large hands cradling my face gently.
I rise up on my toes, wrapping my arms around his neck, needing to be closer. He makes a low sound of approval and lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he turns and walks us backward until my spine meets the cold stainless steel of the industrial refrigerator.
The temperature contrast makes me gasp against his mouth. He swallows the sound, his tongue sliding against mine, claiming every inch he can reach. One hand fists in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it, while the other grips my hip hard enough to bruise.
I should care about the bruises. Should care that I'm making out with my business rival in my kitchen like a teenager. Should care about anything other than the way his body feels pressed against mine, all hard muscle and barely restrained power.
I don't.
My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, fumbling with them desperately. I need skin. Need to feel him without barriers. He helps me, shrugging out of the fabric and tossing it aside, and then there's just him. Miles of grey skin marked with intricate black tattoos, muscle shifting beneath the surface as he moves.
"You're so small," he murmurs against my throat, his tusks grazing my pulse point. "So fucking soft everywhere I'm hard. I could break you so easily."
"Then don't," I challenge breathlessly.
His laugh is dark and rough. "Oh, little baker. I'm going to do much worse than break you. I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."
He carries me across the kitchen like I weigh nothing, setting me down on the heavy wooden prep table I use for rolling pastry dough. The surface is cool beneath my thighs as he steps between my legs, his hands spanning my waist, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how completely he surrounds me. How thoroughly he dominates the space.
I should feel trapped. Instead, I feel claimed.
My hands map the broad expanse of his chest, following the lines of his tattoos, learning the landscape of him. He lets me explore, his breathing growing heavier, his muscles tensing beneath my touch. When my fingers trace the sharp V of muscle that disappears beneath his waistband, he catches my wrist.
"Careful," he warns, but there's no real threat in it. Just promise.
"Or what?" I gaze up at him, defiant despite the heat pooling low in my belly.
"Or I'll stop being gentle."
"Maybe I don't want gentle."
We shift from controlled desire to barely leashed hunger in a heartbeat. His hands find the hem of my flour-dusted dress, pushing it up my thighs, his calloused palms rough against my skin. I arch into the touch, needing more, needing everything.
He kisses me again, harder this time, all pretense of tenderness abandoned. His teeth catch my lower lip, pulling slightly, and I moan into his mouth. The sound seems to snap something in him. His hands grip my hips, dragging me to the table, pressing himself against me until I can feel exactly how much he wants this.
"Lanek," I gasp, and his name on my lips sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once.
"Say it again."
"Lanek." I rock against him, desperate for friction, for relief from the aching need building inside me. "Please."
His forehead drops to mine, his breathing harsh and ragged. For a moment, we just stay like that, caught in the space between restraint and surrender. Then his hands tighten on my hips, holding me completely still.
"Tell me you're mine, Quinn." His voice is rough, almost desperate. "I need to hear it."
CHAPTER 12
